


(You Get Me) Closer

by ourdramaqueen



Series: Closer [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Relationships, Blow Jobs, Broken Frodo, Canon Era, During Canon, F/M, Fellatio, Gap Filler, Grief/Mourning, Inspired by Music, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Minas Tirith, Opposites Attract, Oral Sex, Post-Quest of the Ring, Rohan (Tolkien), Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Self-Doubting Éomer, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Spanking, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27902887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourdramaqueen/pseuds/ourdramaqueen
Summary: The moment the Horselord's eyes met his, Frodo felt something inside of him lurch free, a strange hunger more intense than any he'd ever known. Lust was not strong enough a word for it, and truly despite all his reading, he had none to name this feeling.All he knew was that he had to get closer to this magnificent specimen of a Man.Movieverse with a pinch of bookverse thrown in for good measure.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Frodo Baggins/Éomer Éadig, Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: Closer [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043223
Kudos: 11





	1. Minas Tirith

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the wonderful [Ladysunrope](https://ladysunrope.livejournal.com/)! I have to thank her doubly: 1) for providing her top-notch editing skills and enthusiastic feedback, and 2) for very graciously and enthusiastically assisting with my background research into Anglo-Saxon culture, which I was often unable to find details for on the internet! I couldn't have done it without you, LSR!
> 
> Fun fact: As I was going through my old Frodo/Éomer fan fic bookmarks in early Fall 2020, a more-porn-than-plot bunny suddenly made itself known, and took fuller form while I was listening to Nine Inch Nails' "Closer"*. I started writing some Frodo/Eomer PWP scenes in post-Quest Minas Tirith, loosely connected by short background scenes. After a while I discovered that I had 15K words including something resembling a plot (or at least character development), and then more scenes demanded to be added, and I ended up with over 30K words. O_O This hasn't happened to me in almost two decades! So thank you, plot bunny, even if you got a bit out of control!
> 
> *Those who know the song are probably wondering, "How did *that* song inspire a LotR story?!" But if you listen to the lyrics, they are actually perfect for this pairing! For those who are unfamiliar with it, I've added the lyrics plus a link to the official video in chapter 4. The story itself is 3 chapters long.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't love. Maybe it could have been, had they met under different circumstances, but then there might not have been that instant, instinctual recognition the moment they laid eyes on each other: that each held the antidote to what ailed the other.

Frodo had finally recovered enough that he could leave his room in the Houses of Healing for a time, and so his cousins and faithful Sam enticed him out into the small courtyard garden. It would have been utterly lovely if not for the hollowness that Frodo felt inside. He smiled and joked along with the other Hobbits, but while he enjoyed their company and their peaceful surroundings immensely, he couldn't help but feel like he was putting on an act. He felt like the part of him that could truly enjoy this idyllic quiet was gone – shattered to pieces as he gave in to the empty promises of the thrice-damned Ring, his essence ripped from him along with the golden bauble on his finger, fallen into the fires of Mount Doom still clutched in Sméagol’s hand. Thankfully none of the others seemed to notice, or they likely attributed any strangeness in his behaviour to his continued need for recovery. He wouldn’t have had the words to explain.

On the third day they were joined, after a while, by two Big People, fair hair glinting in the sunlight like threads of gold. Merry was quick to rise and bow to them before he introduced the Lady Éowyn, who was also still in the Houses of Healing, and her brother, Éomer King.

The moment the Horselord's eyes met his, Frodo felt something inside of him lurch free, a strange hunger more intense than any he'd ever known. Lust was not strong enough a word for it, and truly despite all his reading, he had none to name this feeling. All he knew was that for just a moment, he could see the same hunger reflected in the depths of those hazel eyes before it was reined in tightly. Éomer King gracefully bowed his head to the Ringbearer, but Frodo could barely hear his words of greeting, spoken in a deep, melodious voice that sent a pleasant shiver down his spine, nor could he have later repeated what he'd said in return.

All he knew was that he had to get closer to this magnificent specimen of a Man.

***

Éomer came to him that night, climbing in the window of Frodo's room in the Houses of Healing like a thief as Frodo, clad in naught but his nightshift, stood in the moonlight, shaking with want. He was unable to see the expression on the Horselord's face as he slowly stalked towards him, but his body seemed to be coiled for attack, hands flexing at his sides as if he was already imagining the feel of his prey in his grasp.

Frodo's breath came in uneven, quick bursts as his intruder approached slowly; as soon as the Man was within reach he surged up, snatching at his shoulders and neck, surprising Éomer into a grunt as his knees hit the floor. Strong arms ensnared Frodo and their mouths met violently, quickly followed by tongues battling for dominance. Frodo's hands dug deep into the golden mane of hair, fingertips digging into Éomer's scalp with what strength he'd regained in his time at the Houses of Healing. Large, calloused hands roamed from Frodo's head down over his shoulders and back to his behind, cupping and squeezing the rounded flesh through the thin cloth and tearing a moan from Frodo's throat.

Éomer's mouth traced a path over Frodo's cheek, down his jaw and throat as Frodo bared it to him. Sharp teeth bit lightly at his pulse point, eliciting more moans and gasps; his fingers bit harder into the back of Éomer's skull. Éomer's mouth smeared across the base of Frodo's throat, tongue dipping into the hollow. This time it was Éomer who moaned.

In a blur, their clothes were gone, haphazardly thrown where they may fall. Éomer laid Frodo down on his cot, hips pressing against Frodo’s parting his thighs as the Man covered his naked body with his own, larger one while being careful not to crush him. His long hair fell around their faces like a veil as they exchanged heated kisses again, until he slid down Frodo's body, kissing, licking, nipping gently at every unmarred inch of skin around the still-healing bruises and scars, making the Hobbit squirm under him. Only when he was done did his mouth seek out Frodo's erect member, thus far neglected. Frodo could barely contain a shout as hot, wet suction surrounded his turgid flesh, hips held down by the steel of Éomer's forearm. He worried that he would spend before he was ready, but just as that thought crossed his mind, the Man’s mouth withdrew with one final slow glide up his member. His upper body dove over the edge of the cot and Frodo could hear him rummage around the heaps of fabric on the floor, but Frodo had barely time to catch his breath before Éomer rose again with a vial in his hand. He raised his eyebrows, giving Frodo a questioning look, and the Hobbit nodded eagerly before the Horselord was even able to say anything. Frodo was not a stranger to the act, though he'd never done it with anyone who wasn't a Hobbit, and not since before the Quest. Éomer's member was larger than what he was used to, true, but not by much, so with a little additional preparation, Frodo would be fine.

The vial emitted a fragrant scent when Éomer unstopped it, his eyes burning into Frodo’s who moaned, legs spreading farther and hips rolling upwards wantonly at the thought of what was to follow. Soon he was being prepared by a slick finger as their mouths and tongues battled again. Éomer took his time, adding a second finger once the first resistance had faded, and then a third one, making sure Frodo's passage was as relaxed as possible. Finally he withdrew his fingers and after Frodo's enthusiastic reassurance, at long last Éomer's rigid shaft breached Frodo's body, driving the breath from him with the torturously slow invasion. There was the briefest pause when Éomer was fully sheathed, punctuated by a shuddering inhale and exhale. Having confirmed Frodo's comfort, his lover started moving above him carefully, watching Frodo's face for signs of discomfort. Not having found any, Éomer picked up the pace until he was smoothly sliding into his body again and again in a steady, quick rhythm. All thought had fled from Frodo’s mind and nothing mattered but the pleasure building inside his body. The feeling of the Horselord’s essence spilling inside him, a look of almost helpless ecstasy on his face and a growl in his voice that Frodo somehow knew would have been a roar if not for their need of discretion, was all it took for Frodo to follow him over the precipice.

Éomer withdrew from Frodo’s body with utmost gentleness and sank onto his side next to him on the cot, ensuring the Hobbit wasn't hurt before collecting him against his front. Frodo’s head came to rest against the heaving well-muscled chest, and as he listened to the Man’s heart slowing down from a gallop to a canter to a trot, his own did the same. Just before exhaustion overtook his body after having been so unexpectedly and thoroughly exercised, he realised two things: first, that the emptiness inside him had receded, and second, that not a single word had been spoken between them that night.

***

Frodo woke as the sun was rising, alone in his bed. He pushed up on his elbows and groaned at the ache of well-used muscles that could only come from his vigorous joining with the King of Rohan the night prior. He found that sometime after he had fallen into the sleep of the exhausted, Éomer must have cleaned him up and even slid his nightshift on him again, all without waking him. The only evidence left of the Man’s presence was a single long golden hair on Frodo’s pillow, and the sense of peace inside him that had eluded Frodo since his waking from the healing sleep Aragorn had bestowed upon him. Frodo hoped that their joining had similarly soothed Éomer King’s needs... and that the previous night would not remain the only time they came together thus.

***

It did not end there, to Frodo’s utmost relief, though he had to be patient. Éomer was not with his sister in the gardens that day as Sam and he joined her, and upon Frodo’s casual – or so he hoped – inquiry, Éowyn explained that he had business in the encampment of the _Eorlingas_ set up outside the city gates on the Pelennor. Faramir soon joined them, along with his cousin Lady Lothíriel, the daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth who with his two younger sons had fought on the Pelennor and at the Black Gate. She had something almost elf-like about her, and somewhat reminded Frodo of Lady Arwen with her elegant features and dark hair, though less ethereal and darker of skin tone. Before long the three of them had enticed Frodo and Sam into talking about their respective homelands and their misspent youth there. Frodo learned a delightful amount about young Éomer that day, and how supportive and protective he was of his younger sister, the latter a frequent point of frustration for her.

The young King of Rohan did not return that night. Frodo had learned from Merry during his and Pippin’s visit before supper that he had more duties among the people of the Mark on the morrow, and was thus staying in his tent at the encampment. Frodo was kept awake until late by memories of the previous night and his imaginings of another such meeting, and wondered if his Horselord was similarly afflicted.

The coming afternoon, after examining him, Aragorn deemed Frodo well enough to move into one of the rooms set aside in the guest house for visiting dignitaries on the seventh level of the city, near the Citadel, where Frodo knew the remainder of the Fellowship already had lodgings – as did Lady Éowyn and her brother. It would be a relief to have some privacy, away from the constant comings and goings of healers and nurses at the Houses of Healing, and not just because he hoped for another visit from Éomer King.

Frodo was happy to see the young King of Rohan at that night’s informal dinner, to which Aragorn – King Elessar – had invited the Fellowship, Éomer King, his sister, and Lord Faramir for “a simple meal among friends”. Of course in the house of the King of the West, this still meant the food was plentiful and mouth-wateringly delicious, strange as some of the dishes may have seemed to Hobbits of the Shire. Frodo found his appetite was slowly coming back to him, and he particularly enjoyed the thick stews of meats and vegetables, flavoured with exotic spices, and the sweet-tart fruits Aragorn called oranges.

The conversation flowed as smoothly as the fine wine in their goblets, and Frodo enjoyed listening to Éomer’s deep voice tell stories, exchange quips with Gimli, and gently tease his sister, who gave just as good as she got. He thrilled inside whenever he managed to make the Man laugh freely with a few pointed remarks and quips of his own, and had to fight down a blush when Éomer declared, “You have a dangerous sense of humour, Master _Holbytla_. I shall have to keep a close eye on you,” with a big grin and a twinkle in his eye.

Yet a part of Frodo was impatient for the evening to end. Éomer claiming him two nights prior had soothed the jagged edges of his broken self and lessened the emptiness inside him, but all this day he had felt it threaten to return. He wanted to feel the Horselord’s body next to his again with no barriers between them, to feel him surrounding him, filling him, taking over all his senses. And from the way the young King of Rohan looked at him whenever their companions’ attention was not on him, Frodo could tell that his hunger was just as constant.

 _Patience_ , Frodo told himself once again, heart beating faster as blue eyes met hazel, _soon now_.

He did not linger over-long after their meal, easily claiming fatigue after such a busy day preceded by long leisure in recovery. Sam, Merry, and Pippin joined him to retire to their own rooms, but all the way out of the dining room, Frodo could feel dark eyes following him, and he knew that he would not spend this night alone.

Having waited what he deemed a suitable time, mostly spent pacing, Frodo quietly slipped out of his room and down the hallway towards Éomer's, having assured its location from a chambermaid earlier in the day. Taking a deep breath, he knocked lightly on the wooden door and was surprised by how swiftly it was pulled open, as if the room's occupant had stood right behind it. Éomer's eyes lit up with the already-familiar fire, his mouth lifting on one side as he took note of who was standing there.

"It seems we are of one mind once again, Frodo. I was about to seek you out,” he said in a hushed voice before he stood aside to let Frodo enter, then closed and barred the door behind him.

Frodo had barely taken a few steps into the room when Éomer fell to his knees in front of him, eyes dark with want searching his face while his hands clasped Frodo's shoulders, fingers threading into his curls, swiping across his cheeks. "Tell me I can have you again. I have hungered since the moment I left your bed in the Houses of Healing, and not the most exotic delicacies of Gondor and beyond can sate me as you can."

Frodo's heart sped up at those words, the tightly coiled need inside him unleashed at hearing it was reciprocated. "Yes," he breathed as he surged forward into a heated kiss, pressing his body against the Man's.

Éomer took him on his large bed, Frodo lying flat on his front with a pillow beneath his hips, his lover's body pressing down on him, wrists pinned above his head by one of Éomer's large, callused hands. He revelled in the feeling of getting pounded into the mattress, hard and fast and deep as he begged for more, harder, faster, deeper, yes, yes, _yes_...

Once more they took their pleasure that night, not an hour before first light, and by unspoken agreement Frodo returned to his rooms shortly before the servants would start bustling along the hallways.

***

They met again the following night, and the one after, and every night they could.

One such night, after a day when Frodo’s aches had been plaguing him more than usual, Éomer found another use for the fragrant oil he used to prepare Frodo for their joinings. He rubbed and massaged the Ringbearer’s whole body until he was writhing in bliss instead of pain, and Éomer’s slicked hand brought him to completion with just a few strokes. Frodo fell asleep before he was able to reciprocate, but he made it up to his Horselord the next morning by waking him with his mouth enveloping his member.

To Frodo’s joy, Éomer let him return the favour of the massage at a later encounter, and he delighted in exploring his untamed lover’s body in this new way. These sensual interludes also gave them occasion to talk, something they didn’t find much time for on the usual nights in their haste to explore each other’s bodies in as many ways as possible. Frodo came to appreciate the young King of Rohan not only for his beauty and strength, and yes, his prowess in bed (and on top of any horizontal surface, and against the wall, and in the bathtub, and... anywhere else they could think of), but also for his curiosity and wit, simple wisdom, and most of all, his kind heart. There was no artifice to the young King of Rohan, yet Frodo felt like the side he saw of Éomer when they writhed together naked – or sometimes only partially so – was one that the Man had never revealed to anyone before: a dark, controlling side that took without reservation, barely kept in check but for a steady undercurrent of care. It might have scared others, but Frodo felt privileged, for he had found that he was more than willing to be controlled and taken by this Man. He could not say if this was a part of him that had always been there but had lain dark and dormant before, or if it was something new brought on by the ravages of the Quest. In the end, all that mattered was that they complemented and brought each other pleasure and relief.

***

Aragorn’s coronation day had come at last, and with it the arrival of Arwen Undómiel, accompanied by her father and brothers, as well as Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, her grandparents, leading delegations from Rivendell and Lothlórien. But even their ethereal Elven beauty could not capture Frodo’s eyes for long, for Éomer King looked resplendent in his freshly oiled and polished red tooled-leather armour, black calf-length, silver and gold edge-embroidered tunic, and the similarly embroidered dark green cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders, unbraided hair gleaming like spun gold in the sunshine of the Place of the Fountain.

Éomer, in turn, seemed to find Frodo’s outfit similarly pleasing, based on the heat in the Man’s eyes when they first settled upon Frodo in the courtyard. The Hobbits had been given clothes almost identical to the ones they’d worn as they set out on the Quest, though made from much finer fabrics like velvet, brocade, silk, and the finest linen and wool. Frodo had felt slightly uncomfortable wearing such finery, but given the effect it had on Éomer, he was grateful that Aragorn and Gandalf had insisted on this choice for the Hobbits’ wardrobe. He could almost physically feel hazel eyes caress his form from head to toe as the King of Rohan bowed to the Hobbits along with Aragorn, Arwen, and everyone else in the courtyard, which had only contributed to a feeling of almost overwhelming gratefulness, humility, and awe, for the moment overlying Frodo’s usual discomfort at such overt gestures. He was sure in that moment that he was only able to bear it due to the many hours spent in the company of this Man from the Mark, so fierce and yet surprisingly gentle in his own way.

His Horselord looked no less enticing under the many lights illuminating Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasts, during the elaborate celebratory meal that was served afterwards. They were seated not far from each other, but there was hardly occasion to interact amidst all the speeches and toasts, so their eyes did the speaking whenever their gazes met.

There was dancing, of course, and Éomer, not surprisingly, had no shortage of partners. Frodo wished he could join him but he felt no jealousy, for none of the Ladies whom Éomer swung around the dance floor received more than one dance, nor did he treat them with anything more than the minimum expected courtesy. Most importantly, whenever he had a moment to let his attention wander, Éomer’s eyes would seek out Frodo. Even Lady Lothíriel – in Frodo’s opinion the loveliest and most charming Lady present, along with Arwen – could not hold Éomer’s attention for much longer, though he seemed to enjoy her company more than most others’, as evidenced by them having an actual conversation both during and after their dance. Frodo watched Éomer laugh at something she said as he escorted her back to her brothers’ side, and for a moment the idle thought passed through his mind that they made a beautiful couple. But as soon as Éomer turned away from her, their eyes caught, and his thoughts were erased by what Frodo read in those hazel depths: the promise for a night to remember, once they were free to leave.

***

"Everyone treats you with such reverence," Éomer muttered into his ear, hands busy unfastening the buttons on Frodo's fashionable waistcoat and shirt. At the feast, Aragorn – King Elessar – had honoured the Hobbits and especially the Ringbearer and his steadfast companion Samwise, and he had not been the only one. Being called out like this repeatedly had made Frodo feel like a fraud, the emptiness and jagged edges chafing inside him more than they had since he'd first been claimed by his Horselord. Only Éomer had not directly called out Frodo and Sam in his speech, though clearly referencing their perilous journey and its unique risks due to the Ring, and it had been an incredible relief to Frodo, for he did not know if he would have been able to bear it from his lover. Now the young King growled, lips moving against his neck. "Part of me wants to do the same, wants to bow to you and serve you, but deep inside me... there is a part that wants to desecrate you." A shiver went through Frodo's body at those words and Éomer paused and pulled back, eyes burning into Frodo's. "Does that scare you, _mín Holbytla_?"

Frodo's head rolled back against the wall of his room against which Éomer had pinned him, blue eyes blazing into hazel. "No... I want you to. I want you to desecrate me. Help me forget myself, and you will have served me better than you showing your utmost reverence ever could."

Éomer snarled in reply before his mouth crashed into Frodo's in a harsh kiss, tongue plunging into his mouth and tangling with his own until they were both breathless and Frodo's torso was bared to his Horselord. The man covered his neck, shoulders, and chest with nips, kisses, and bites, making Frodo squirm and moan lustily underneath him. Soon he found himself naked, legs wrapped around Éomer and back pressed against the stone wall behind him as strong hips thrust against him, plunging that long, hard, magnificent member inside him again and again; desecrating the Ringbearer's body while reassembling the broken pieces inside him, one by one.

***

It wasn't love. Maybe it could have been, had they met under different circumstances, but then there might not have been that instant, instinctual recognition the moment they laid eyes on each other: that each held the antidote to what ailed the other.

They did not talk about it, but from little things Éomer said – and didn’t say – Frodo realised that the young King of Rohan felt just as much that he had failed as he himself did: failed to keep Gríma from poisoning Théoden King’s mind, failed to keep his cousin Théodred alive, failed to protect his sister from Gríma’s attentions. Then he lost his King, his uncle who had raised him and his sister as a father would – and for a while thought he had lost his beloved sister too. Though he did not openly show it, the mantle of kingship sat uneasily on Éomer’s shoulders, for he had never expected nor desired to rise to the throne of Rohan, and Frodo suspected that his perceived failures of the past made Éomer afraid that he would fail his people, too.

It was nonsense, of course. Frodo had occasion to watch Éomer among his people at the Rohirrim encampment when Merry brought the other three Hobbits to visit, proudly showing them around and introducing them to various Riders of the Mark, who greeted them warmly and with deep bows. Éomer was with some of their horses in a temporary pen, and seeing him handling the animals with gentle firmness did wonderful things to Frodo. He suspected that his Horselord well knew, from the one sly glance he got when the young King came over to greet them. Once they had admired the Eorlingas’ famed horses, clearly a source of both pride and joy, the King invited them to luncheon in his tent, and Frodo took note of the way he interacted with his Riders on the stroll there. He shared a few words or a jest here and inquired after the health of a healing Rider, and every now and then asked about the state of some business or other. Obviously Éomer trusted that his people knew what they were doing, and Frodo felt that despite his doubts – or maybe because of them – he would soon grow into his role of King, and make a magnificent one indeed.

Suddenly he realised that seeing Éomer thus gave him hope for the first time. Hope that he, too, might be able to overcome his fears and doubts and grow into his old-yet-new life, at least to some extent. Frodo knew that he would never fully heal and that his wounds in body, mind, and spirit would always plague him. But he would try, for the sake of Merry, Pippin, and Sam, and Bilbo as well. Their tale needed to be told alongside Bilbo’s in the Red Book; he would complete that task, Frodo swore to himself, if it was the last thing he would do on this Middle-earth.

As the four Hobbits joined Éomer on the soft furs and cushions around the low table in the King’s tent, conversation and laughter flowing freely over a simple but plentiful meal of dried meats, cheeses, fruit, and diluted wine, Frodo thought he would gladly keep giving Éomer control over his body whenever he needed it, for however long he could, if it helped soothe the young King half as much as it did him.

That night, Frodo’s body was cradled by the softest sheepskin he had ever felt as his Horselord had him on his bed, for when he had admired the ones in Éomer’s tent he had been assured by the King that he himself would bring him one upon his return to the city that night. The contrast between the softness of the wool and the harshness of Éomer’s body on top and inside of him, large hands gripping his wrists above his head so he was barely able to move, drew his pleasure even higher than usual until they both shouted out their completion.

***

The wedding of Arwen and Aragorn was a joyous occasion, and Frodo got the impression that quite a few Gondorian customs were flouted by the King and Queen. No doubt they would start new customs and traditions in this rather strict court.

Arwen was of course a most beautiful bride, and her father Elrond, as well as her grandparents, Galadriel and Celeborn, looked on her and Aragorn with a fondness typically restrained for Elves, yet no less genuine. Her twin brothers, Elrohir and Elladan, were just slightly more exuberant in their congratulations.

When Aragorn and Arwen opened the dancing, Frodo and Sam found refuge on one of the plush benches spread around the edges of the room, and they watched the crowd, talking softly. Suddenly Frodo felt someone sitting down in the unoccupied seat next to him, and found to his joy that it was Éomer.

“I seek your aid, Ringbearers, for I am much beleaguered.”

Frodo smirked up at him. “Is the King of Rohan, famed for his feats in battle, unable to fend off the unwedded Ladies of Minas Tirith by himself?” He had noticed the crowd of young Ladies and their mothers and aunts forming around Éomer as soon as the banquet had ended.

Éomer snorted. “I would rather face a pack of Wargs than these _Ladies_!” At Frodo and Sam’s laugh, he continued, “Any foe I can face with a weapon, I will gladly welcome, but battles of words... nay, those are not my strength. At least not when the words used are as twisted as they are at this court.” Éomer smirked, and lowered his voice further to murmur into Frodo’s ear, “Besides, they gave me a good excuse to seek your company.”

Frodo blushed at the heated gaze from those hazel eyes. “As if you needed one,” he returned just as quietly. Louder, he added, “Well you are welcome here for as long as you want to stay. Sam and I will do our best to keep away your wily pursuers, won’t we, Sam?”

“We certainly will, Mr. Frodo,” Sam answered with a chuckle.

Just then, all three pairs of eyes were inevitably drawn to Arwen whirling by in Aragorn’s arms.

“I am afraid I shall have to face Gimli’s axe,” Éomer suddenly said, a smile in his voice.

“What? Why?” Frodo asked, surprise clear in his voice. He had thought that Gimli and Éomer got along rather well.

“You see, upon our first meeting, I rashly said some unflattering things about the Lady of the Woods, and later Gimli told me I would learn to appreciate her under the strokes of his axe lest I acknowledge that the Lady Galadriel was fairest of all, once I saw her with my own eyes.” He shook his head and turned to look at Frodo and Sam. “She is fair indeed, but having seen Queen Arwen too, I must declare her the fairest of all.”

Frodo and Sam grinned, and Sam said, “I am sure that Gimli will forgive you, Mr. Éomer King.”

Éomer grinned back and took a sip of wine. “We shall see. I have not told him yet, for I would not want to be responsible for a bloodbath at Aragorn’s wedding.”

“Methinks someone shows a preference for dark hair,” Sam whispered to Frodo, lightly bumping his shoulder. Frodo shot him a startled look and hummed noncommittally. Did this mean that Sam _knew_ , or had he simply also picked up on Éomer favouring Princess Lothíriel’s company over other Gondorian Ladies’? But Sam just smiled at him, then went back to watching the dancers, so Frodo told himself not to overthink it.

For a while the three of them sat in companionable conversation. Frodo let his eyes wander, and noticed a small group standing a little ways to their left, including Faramir and Éowyn – and another somewhat familiar Lady of dark hair. He waved his goblet in the direction of the group as he told Éomer, “Why don’t you ask your sister to dance, or Lady Lothíriel? That would keep the harpies away for a while.”

Éomer chuckled, then grimaced. “If I ask one to dance, even if it is my sister, I’ll have to ask the other Ladies too. I’ve had more than my fill of insipid conversation at the coronation, I’m afraid.”

Frodo grinned up at him impishly. He was in high spirits and feeling better than most other days, and it had been a long time since he had danced. “Well if you won’t, I will.” He turned to Sam. “Will you dance, too? You could ask Éowyn.”

Same shook his head, clearly embarrassed at the thought. “You go on ahead, Mr. Frodo. I don’t know these courtly dances, so I’ll keep Mr. Éomer King company, help him keep the har- err, the Ladies at bay.”

Frodo grinned as he stood. “As you wish.”

Éomer shot him a mock indignant look. “You would abandon me and leave me with half the defenders I need?”

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be in good hands. If necessary, Sam can get his frying pan. He wields it rather well.” With a parting wink at Éomer, he walked up to his intended dance partner.

Lady Lothíriel accepted with delight, and Frodo managed passably – it was one of the simpler Gondorian dances, and he had picked up on the steps at previous festivities. Lothíriel being a good dancer and able to compensate for his occasional missteps certainly helped, too. They had a lively conversation as they discovered their common interest in books and learning, several times interrupted by sniggers in reaction to catching the expressions, ranging from mildly disapproving to scandalised, on the faces of courtiers who saw them dancing together.

When they danced past the bench where Sam and Éomer sat – the latter sent Frodo an amused look mid-sentence – Lothíriel said, “You seem to have become good friends with Éomer King.”

Frodo inclined his head, trying to keep from blushing, and replied as blandly as he could, “I have indeed, and I am glad of it. He is an exceptional man.”

“So I hear from my father and brothers. He certainly is a wonderful dancer – but he seems unwilling to participate today. I hope he is not unwell?”

Frodo grinned. In his experience, from any other Lady of the court, this might have been a subtle dig at Éomer for not asking her to dance, but Lothíriel tended to mean what she said, so from her it meant genuine concern. “Oh no. It is just...” He lowered his voice. “He is afraid that if he dances with one Lady, even his sister, he will then have to dance with all others, and I’m afraid they have rather been hounding him tonight.”

Lothíriel laughed. “Oh my. Yes, I understand his dilemma all too well.” She gave Frodo a conspiratorial wink. “I’m in a similar situation myself, you see. I was beginning to run out of familiar faces to run to whenever one of the many so-called eligible bachelors started approaching, so I must thank you for coming to my rescue.”

They both descended into a barely contained fit of the giggles, but thankfully the song was coming to an end before they lost track of the steps, and Frodo accompanied her back to where Faramir and Éowyn still stood. They had been joined by two Rohirrim: Captain Éothain and Marshal Elfhelm. Frodo greeted them, then said to Faramir, “May I return Lady Lothíriel into your care, and instead ask Lady Éowyn for a dance?” He turned to her and added with a smile, “Only if you wish to, of course.”

Éowyn laughed. “How could I refuse?”

Faramir lifted her hand to his lips with a smile. “I’ll leave you in Frodo’s capable hands, then,” he murmured before letting her go.

Éowyn threw an amused look in her brother’s direction as they approached the dancefloor, which he answered with a playful scowl. “Never would I have thought to see the day when my brother let a few noblewomen curb his enthusiasm for dancing,” she said as they joined the other dancers, “But not for much longer, if I have any say in it.”

Frodo grinned. _There go Éomer’s best-laid plans to stay off the dance floor tonight._

“To be fair, they seemed to be rather... insistent in their attentions.”

“Oh, pish. Éomer just needs a lesson in how to thwart their attentions in a firm manner that is two-tongued enough for the standards of the court of Minas Tirith. I am sure that Faramir or his cousins from Dol Amroth would be happy to advise him. Why he didn’t just ask them for help in the first place, I truly don’t know,” she added with an eye roll.

Éowyn proved almost as graceful a dancer as Lothíriel. She explained that as members of Théoden King’s household, she and her brother had been required to learn Rohirric as well as Gondorian dances. From there, their conversation moved on to the various cultural differences between Gondor, Rohan, and the Shire, with much bemusement reserved for the stricter Gondorian society. Frodo agreed with Éowyn’s assessment that King Elessar and Queen Arwen’s more relaxed attitudes could only improve things.

By the time Frodo retired to Sam’s side, pleading exhaustion, Éomer had been drawn into a conversation with Prince Imrahil and his sons. Instead, Merry and Pippin sat next to Sam, having been released from their duties. Frodo let himself be pulled into their conversation about the foods served at the banquet, until he noticed Éowyn pulling her clearly reluctant brother rather forcefully to the dancefloor. Frodo almost choked on his wine at the look Éomer sent his way, promising retribution for his abandonment. _As if I could have kept Éowyn from demanding a dance with her brother!_ he thought with a smile. A few songs later, Frodo saw him dancing with Lothíriel, and chuckled as she sent him a beaming smile over Éomer’s shoulder.

 _They really do look lovely together,_ Frodo thought, his impression from the coronation feast strengthened. Before he could decide how that thought made him feel, he got drawn into helping Pippin and Sam convince Merry that he should ask Éowyn to dance, then the happy newlyweds retreated to their chambers among general polite applause (and some cheers from the Rohirric guests), then Éomer got swept up (or maybe ‘rescued’ would have been the more accurate term, for a group of female admirers had started to form around him again) by some of his Riders, then Gandalf joined the Hobbits, followed by Legolas and Gimli... Suddenly Frodo realised that it was much later than he had expected to stay, so he made his excuses and nodded at Éomer as he passed the group of Eorlingas on his not-so-direct way to the main doors of Merethrond. The young King answered with a curt nod of his own and a dark promise in his eyes.

***

By the time Éomer returned to his chamber, Frodo had draped himself artfully across his bed, barely covered by the sheet, and Éomer’s eyes slid hungrily over Frodo’s body as he removed his cloak and let it fall to the floor, immediately followed by his tunic.

“Are you ready for your punishment, my impudent _Holbytla_?”

“Punishment for what?” Frodo asked with feigned innocence as he watched Éomer shed his breeches.

“Abandoning your King in his time of need bears a most severe punishment,” Éomer replied, crawling onto the bed in all his naked glory to hover over Frodo.

“But you are not my King,” Frodo said softly.

“Am I not?”

Éomer pulled the sheet off Frodo’s naked body, his eyes following in the wake of newly revealed flesh, then he let his hand lightly drift up the smaller body from hip to chest, causing Frodo to draw in a sharp breath.

“Do I not command your body?”

His hand moved to Frodo’s nipple and tweaked it at the same time his mouth descended on its twin, grinning as Frodo moaned deeply. His mouth moved up, leaving a trail of nips, licks, and kisses along his throat and jaw.

“Are you not mine?”

Éomer’s voice was shaking with barely restrained passion, mouth suspended so closely over Frodo’s that their lips almost touched.

Frodo couldn’t hold back any longer, his body shivering with need. “Yes, my King! Punish me, please!”

Éomer’s hand tangled in the hair at the back of Frodo’s head as he claimed his mouth with a bruising kiss, tongue tangling with Frodo’s in a violent dance. Frodo’s hands flew up to grab at Éomer’s shoulders, almost causing him to fall on top of him.

Éomer pulled back and caught Frodo’s wrists above his head. “Oh no, you are not going to take control. Not tonight. Stay still!”

But Frodo couldn’t. He needed... something; he didn’t know what, only that this need would not let him hold still. “Please! I... I can’t... I need...”

Éomer cursed under his breath as he tried to hold the restlessly moving figure beneath him. Frodo somehow managed to roll onto his front, half draped over Éomer’s thighs as he sat on his heels on top of the sheets. “Stop squirming!” Suddenly, Frodo felt a stinging pain on his buttock, and both froze.

“Frodo...” Éomer’s voice conveyed the shock at what he had just done.

The pain radiated out from where Éomer had spanked him, spreading pleasure in its wake.

“Again!” Frodo moaned.

“Frodo?”

“Again, please!” He didn’t care that he was all but begging. _This! This is what I need!_

He barely heard Éomer’s hand move through the still air before it landed on his other buttock, and Frodo moaned again at the sensation. “Don’t stop!”

“Is this the punishment you choose, then, _mín Holbytla_?” Éomer asked in a low voice.

“Yes! Please!”

Éomer growled, and Frodo could feel the wet tip of his lover’s member twitch against his hip as he settled him firmly across his lap. Then his Horselord’s callused hand landed on his arse again. And again. And again. There were no thoughts, just sensation, pain bleeding into pleasure so profound, Frodo almost sobbed with it. Never before had he felt anything like this. He could feel his own member hanging hard and heavy, and he knew he would need release soon, but right now it seemed of lesser importance than the bliss filling his whole being, so he simply gave himself over to it.

At long last, Éomer stopped, his laboured breathing loud in the silence of his chamber. “I will have you now, _mín Holbytla_ , unless you are in too much pain.”

Frodo whimpered, his need suddenly soaring to the forefront. “Yes! I need you inside me, now!” he slurred, feeling half drunk.

Éomer barely needed to prepare him, so relaxed and eager was he, and used to being regularly exercised this way, but the thought of truly hurting Frodo was anathema to him. So prepare him he did, if only briefly, before pulling Frodo onto his knees, head and shoulders still on the sheets, and entering Frodo’s body in a single smooth slide. They groaned in unison when he bottomed out, and then Éomer took him, hard, fast, ruthlessly, pulling Frodo’s hips back into each thrust, which exacerbated the remaining pain from the spanking, spiralling into and heightening the shocks of pleasure from their rutting. Frodo’s hands were clutching the sheets, and soon he had to grab a nearby pillow to rest his head on and muffle his exceedingly loud cries. He was close, so close, and as if Éomer had felt it, he gave a particularly hard thrust, and Frodo tumbled over the precipice, feeling Éomer follow closely behind.

Chests still heaving, Éomer tumbled them over onto their sides, away from the stained sheets, arms circling his torso, his softening member still inside Frodo.

Once they had recovered somewhat, Éomer chuckled, nuzzling Frodo’s hair. “You never cease to surprise me, _mín Holbytla_.”

Frodo smiled, eyes closed as he still drifted in the aftermath of this encounter. They were always quite vigorous, but this... this had been extraordinary. Combined with the earlier dancing and staying up later than was his wont, he felt rather sleepy now, but he managed to reply, “I’m happy to know that you won’t get bored of me anytime soon.”

Éomer kept nuzzling his hair for a few moments, his voice thoughtful when he said, “I doubt I ever will.”

Frodo hummed contentedly, and drifted off to sleep.

***

Gandalf knew; of that Frodo was quite certain very soon after Éomer and he had started their... arrangement. Of course he did – the Hobbits’ rooms were close to Gandalf’s, and little escaped the wily old wizard’s notice. Though in public they interacted as befit the Ringbearer and the King of Rohan, Frodo had often felt Gandalf watching his and Éomer’s interactions. Yet when he’d finally managed to catch his eyes on one such occasion, he’d found an amused twinkle inside them, and Frodo had breathed more easily. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of what they were doing, but he knew few would understand.

If Aragorn didn't know, then he surely suspected after, during his final regular physical examination of Frodo’s wounds, he discovered the bruises Éomer had left on the Hobbit’s upper arms two nights prior, after the wedding, while they had been wrestling for control.

"Frodo, what happened? Who did this?" he exclaimed, hands hovering over the discoloured fingerprints, face appalled at the notion that anyone would hurt him.

Frodo lifted his chin and locked eyes with him as he firmly replied, "Nothing that I didn't want to happen, and someone whom I wanted it to happen with." He stared down the High King, making it quite clear that this subject was not open for discussion, until eventually Aragorn reluctantly relented with a slight bow of his head, though he insisted on treating the bruises with an ointment, and elicited a promise that Frodo come to him if he ever was truly hurt, no matter how it happened or who did it.

The King's eyes started measuring Frodo's every interaction with Men and Elves following that incident, clearly intent on finding out whose marks Frodo carried on his skin, and most likely having noticed that a Hobbit’s hands were too small to have caused these bruises. However, he ceased after a few days, to Frodo’s relief. He did not want Aragorn to think badly of his friend Éomer for something that was just as much Frodo’s doing.

***

One night soon after, Frodo woke up in his bed to the barely-there feeling of callused fingers running gently over the scar inflicted by the Witch King’s blade on his left shoulder. Instinctively, he stiffened. During their encounters, Éomer’s eyes never lingered on them, and while he didn’t outright touch them, he moved around Frodo’s scars with such fluidity that it never made Frodo feel like he avoided them out of disgust, either. He was not sure what to make of this gentle exploration.

The fingers lifted, though he could still feel their warmth, as if they were hovering just above his skin. “My apologies,” Éomer murmured, voice still rough with sleep, “I did not mean to hurt you.”

Frodo opened his eyes to look up at him, laying on his side in the moon-lit room, right arm flexed so his hand supported his head. His left sank down to rest on the sheet next to Frodo’s arm. “You didn’t. Truthfully, it is rather numb. I’m just not used to anyone touching my scars apart from Aragorn and the healers, or Sam.” He shrugged, looking at the wall over Éomer’s shoulder. “But only if he has to. He doesn’t even like looking at it.” He paused, then added, “I am not sure if he thinks it’s ugly, or he thinks that I do. I tried asking, but he doesn’t like to dwell on what happened to us on our journey.”

“Do you?” Éomer asked softly, then clarified at Frodo’s questioning look, “Think that it is ugly?”

Frodo thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “It isn’t pretty, but... it just is. Ultimately, I guess it is a sign that I survived the Witch King’s blade.”

Éomer hummed in assent, then traced the edge of the almost fully healed scar on the back and sides of Frodo’s neck. “This looks like you wore something heavy around your neck for a long time.”

Frodo’s fingers traced the scar absently as he explained, “I carried the Ring on a chain. It... was such a tiny thing, and yet somehow it grew heavier the closer to Mordor we got, both in body and mind. So heavy... sometimes I thought I would collapse if I took but one more step.” His fingers dug into his flesh for a moment, before he shook off the memories that still haunted him and looked at Éomer, running his hand over the soft hair on the Man’s muscular, flexed forearm instead in an effort to anchor himself in the present.

Éomer smiled gently, then indicated the rounded area of puckered flesh on Frodo’s right chest. “What caused this?”

Frodo shuddered. “Shelob stung me. I was a fool and sent Sam away based on nothing more than Sméagol’s lies, and got led into a trap for it. My faithful Sam followed and was able to fight off the spider, but not before it had stung me and wrapped me up in a cocoon of spider silk. Sam thought me dead, and when he heard Orcs coming, he took the Ring and hid, knowing that he would have to finish our task by himself. But when he learned from the Orcs’ chatter that I was only sleeping, he followed them to their tower and freed me.” He smiled tremulously as he remembered the relief he had felt when Sam had appeared.

“I am very thankful that you had such a faithful companion by your side on your perilous journey.”

“Indeed. I will never be able to repay him for all he did for me.” Frodo swallowed, looking up at the ceiling. “I would not be here, if it weren’t for him.”

Éomer gently turned Frodo’s face towards him until their eyes met. “You are not talking about Cirith Ungol anymore,” he said with certainty. “Will you tell me?”

Frodo cringed slightly. He had not talked to anyone about this, but Éomer’s eyes held no expectation, only acceptance and warmth, and that made it easier to open up to his lover about his greatest shame: how he had failed at the Sammath Naur. A lot of it was like retelling a dream that he could barely remember, but the most important pieces were there – how he had tried to cast the Ring into the fire; how there, at the centre of its power, he instead had finally given in to its seductive whispers and claimed it; how Sméagol – Gollum – had suddenly reappeared and bit off his finger bearing the Ring; how they had wrestled for its possession, both consumed with Want, and tumbled over the edge together.

How he had hung from the precipice with his intact hand, and how close he had come to letting go – had longed to let go, to follow Gollum and the Ring into the lake of fire and find peace, at last – and how only Sam’s unquenchable faith and hope had made him reach for his friend’s hand and choose to live, if only for a little while, as Mount Doom raged around them, spitting fire and ash and fumes.

Éomer’s strong arms pulled Frodo against his body as he finished, and he could hear his voice catch as he said, “It seems I owe Master Samwise a great debt of gratitude, for I cannot contemplate the thought of never meeting you.” Then Éomer loosened his embrace to gently take Frodo’s maimed hand and press a kiss to the stump, making Frodo gasp and look up at him with tears gathering in his eyes.

“You have endured much, beyond hope, and sacrificed more, Frodo, for all our sakes, and from what Gandalf and Aragorn told me, which you just confirmed, the mercy you showed Sméagol was what ensured the success of your Quest. This is no more a mark of shame than any of your other scars. You have not failed, Frodo. You set in motion the events that led to the Ring’s destruction, the return of the King, and peace for Middle-earth. You are... the most extraordinary being I have ever met, and every new thing I find out about you makes you more so.”

Those quiet yet impassioned words finally made the tears spill over – tears that Frodo hadn’t even been aware had been waiting to fall since he woke up in the Houses of Healing – and he clung to his Horselord as he wept. When the tears finally ceased a long while later, the strong arms surrounding him tightened minutely. A gentle kiss was pressed to the top of Frodo’s head. “Try to sleep some more, _mín Holbytla_. There is still time before we have to rise.”

Frodo hummed, content and feeling lighter, as if a burden had been lifted, and let Éomer’s strong heartbeat lull him back to sleep.

***

It was almost a week later that Frodo slipped into Éomer’s room at night, as was their habit, only to find it empty. He had received no message about business in the Rohirrim encampment, nor of anything else that would keep his lover away, so Frodo was puzzled. After waiting a while, Frodo first went back to his own room, in case there had been a misunderstanding and Éomer had come to seek him, and upon finding it equally empty wandered around the mostly deserted hallways, and finally outside to explore the places where he knew Éomer liked to spend time.

He finally found him in the High Stables, clearly agitated. Éomer was pacing the width of the aisle between two stalls at the far back, barely reacting as Frodo walked up to him aside from a brief, dark look that quickly skittered away again.

Frodo watched for a moment in the almost-silence disturbed only by the occasional whinny and sound of movement or chewing from the stabled horses, and when no words were forthcoming, he asked, “What troubles you, Éomer? Is aught amiss?”

Éomer shot him another quick look, lips pressed together in a thin line, before he spoke, still pacing. “Maybe... maybe we should... it might be better if...” Éomer abruptly stopped and sighed, eyes closed, fists clenched at his side, before he took a deep breath and uttered in a rush, eyes firmly on the stall in front of him, “If we stopped seeing each other.”

Frodo felt cold wash over him as his lover’s words sank in. “Wh- what?” he was barely able to stutter as his breath left him, too stunned to find his voice.

Éomer turned to him, eyes a mixture of helplessness and disgust – most likely at himself, Frodo concluded at his following words. "Frodo, you... you let me violate and desecrate your body. After all that you’ve gone through, why would you let me do such... such perverted things, again and again?"

Frodo reared back. "Violate? There is no violation if we both want it. There is no perversion in giving and taking what we need!"

Éomer sank to his knees in front of him. "But you shouldn't let me do these things to you! Just because I have been feeling like I had no control over my life for so long... that doesn’t justify me mistreating you!"

Frodo’s eyes narrowed. “Has someone spoken to you about us? Did they warn you away from me?”

Éomer averted his gaze. “Frodo...”

He took a step closer, shaking with fury. “Who was it? Tell me!”

Éomer’s lips thinned, but Frodo knew from the way his eyes moved to his arms where the last vestiges of the Horselord’s finger-shaped bruises remained, which only one other person had seen. “Aragorn? Oh that foolish, meddling...” He turned back toward the stable gates, ready to go bang on the High King’s chamber doors, the lateness of the hour be damned, and let him know exactly what he thought of his interference, especially after Frodo had made it clear to him that it would not be welcome.

“Frodo, no!” Éomer grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him back around to face him. “He did not warn me away from you. Aragorn was merely concerned for your wellbeing. The bruises... they perturbed him.” His fingers ghosted over their location, similarly perturbed hazel eyes locked there before they finally rose to Frodo’s. “I assured him that I would never do anything you didn’t ask of me, or that would truly harm you. But...” He sighed, hands leaving Frodo’s body as he sat back on his heels, shoulders slumped, and turned away to look at the empty stall next to them, gaze unseeing. “His words troubled me. I could not stop thinking... what sane man would treat his lover thus? Especially you, who have gone through so much.”

“One who knows that his lover _needs_ to be treated thus,” Frodo answered softly, cradling Éomer’s face between his hands and turning it back towards him so he could look into his eyes. “Ever since the Ring fell into the fire, I have been feeling like I'm broken and I can't fit the pieces back together. A part of me is missing, like... like It took my soul with It, like I’m isolated from everyone else. I hate it... and sometimes I hate myself for being so pathetic and wallowing in these feelings. Everyone else seems to be able to move on and look forward to a better future, while I have no faith left, least of all in myself. But...” He raised his voice, silencing Éomer as he shook his head and clearly wanted to protest Frodo’s words. “But being with you... having you take me, having you desecrate and leave your marks on my body... it soothes me.”

He leaned his forehead against Éomer’s. “Don't you see? There are no medicines for what ails me. Only you can help me forget everything and get away from my broken self, for a little while at least. You are helping me put the shards inside me back together. Even if I will never be whole again, because of you, I will still be closer to the Hobbit I used to be than had we not started our arrangement. This... us doing this... is the only thing that I both want and need!"

Éomer closed his eyes and sighed, all remaining tension leaving his body as he leaned heavier into Frodo, hands rising to cradle the Hobbit’s face in a mirror image of the way Frodo held his. “And for me, _mín Holbytla_. Forgive me for letting my doubts rule me.”

Frodo moved Éomer’s head so he could easily graze his plush lower lip with his teeth, before biting down hard enough to draw blood, drawing a startled cry from the Man. “You will just have to find a way to make it up to me, Horselord,” he said in a low, husky voice.

For a few moments, Éomer simply stared at him, tongue flicking out to dab at the bleeding cut. Then his right hand burrowed into Frodo's hair and the left moved to clutch at his waist as he surged up to his knees, at the same time pulling Frodo’s head back by the hair to claim his mouth in a hard kiss, tinged with the copper scent of blood. Their bodies ground together as they swallowed each other’s moans and Frodo’s hands tangled in Éomer’s soft, long mane. Finally the Horselord detached his mouth from Frodo's and leaned his forehead against the Hobbit's again, words a low growl that made Frodo squirm with lust. "I will be happy to do that, _mín Holbytla_. But I fear I have no patience to get back to our lodgings. I want to take you hard, here, now!” His hands roamed Frodo’s body as he spoke, eyes almost completely black with arousal as he waited for his answer.

Frodo felt heat rushing over his body, settling in his groin. "Do it. Take me like one of your beasts would a mate."

They quickly moved into the empty stall, and Éomer did not hesitate to push Frodo down onto its straw-covered floor, removing only what clothes were necessary for the task, and after admonishing him to keep his voice down so as not to spook the horses, he mounted him on all fours, the way the animals in the stalls around them would, hard and fast, with no thought given to tenderness, only the need to slide home, to take, to fill and be filled, until they found completion in each other.

***

The next day, Frodo sought out the King and Queen as they were sitting by the fountain, the Queen’s melodic voice rising and falling in a lilting melody as she sang of Valinor. He waited to approach until her song had ended, and once greetings were exchanged, Frodo asked Aragorn permission to speak to him in private, which he was gladly granted.

“How can I assist you, Frodo?” Aragorn asked once they were seated comfortably in the privacy of his study. Frodo looked straight at his friend and said, voice shaking with suppressed outrage and hurt despite his temper having cooled down considerably since finding out about Aragorn’s interference, “First, I would appreciate it, Aragorn, if next time you warn me before you meddle in my affairs, High King or not. Especially after you agreed not to. I am not some fragile trinket that has to be coddled and touched with kid gloves and protected at all cost. I am a grown Hobbit who can make his own choices.” He lowered his voice even more, his next words coming out as almost a hiss. “Éomer almost ended our association after you spoke to him!”

Aragorn winced, dismay clear on his face as he spread his hands in a placating gesture. “Frodo... that was not my intent, I promise you.” He sighed, moving to one knee in front of Frodo, and looked him in the eyes. “I apologise, truly. I know Éomer is an honourable man, and that you are well capable of making your own decisions. Still, it is difficult for me to see you hurt... especially after all you’ve been through. However, Éomer made it very clear that he values your wellbeing above all else.” Aragorn shook his head. “I may not understand what you and Éomer share, but it is obvious that it has done you good, bruises notwithstanding. And unless I’m mistaken, the same can be said for Éomer.” He smiled tenderly and put a hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “You deserve every good thing that happens to you, Frodo Baggins. I would never intentionally interfere in something that makes you happy.” He bowed his head, hand releasing Frodo’s shoulder to rest over his heart. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for causing you and Éomer distress.”

Frodo felt relief flood through him, and he smiled, putting his own hand on the High King’s shoulder in turn. “Thank you, Aragorn. You have always been a true friend. I would hate for you to think less of Éomer because of me.”

“Do not worry about that. Besides, I should have known better than to forget how headstrong you are,” Aragorn added with a grin, making Frodo laugh.

Then the Hobbit sobered and took a deep breath. “There is another matter that I wanted to talk to you about.”

Aragorn moved back to his chair and nodded. “I believe that I know what you have come to say, Frodo. Éomer told you of his plans?”

Frodo confirmed, "He has, and I talked to Sam, Merry and Pippin..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rohirric translations:  
>  _mín Holbytla_ \- my Hobbit


	2. Rohan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo swore to himself to make the most of what little time they had left together, to shore up memories that they could both hold close for the time, soon to come, when they were alone again.

As Frodo left Aragorn's study, having made arrangements for the four Hobbits to return to the Shire, it struck him how strange his life had turned out. Before Gandalf came to him with news that Bilbo's ring was, in fact, the One Ring, Frodo had been an unassuming Hobbit who had never left the Shire or interacted with outsiders, apart from the wizard. Granted, Frodo was considered almost as eccentric as Bilbo by their fellow Hobbits, but the point still stood. Yes, he'd dreamed of meeting Elves and Dwarves and Men, but had never even entertained the thought that he might one day talk to the High King of Gondor and Arnor as if they were equals, or confront said King about his stance on Frodo's growing friendship – and whatever else one could call their involvement – with the King of Rohan. He was relieved, but in truth not surprised, that Aragorn had shown nothing but respect and honour in acknowledging that this path they were on was theirs alone. How lucky Gondor was to have such a man as king!

 _The same goes for Rohan and their king,_ Frodo thought, smiling softly. _And how doubly lucky am I to know them both, and call them friends?_

Warmth flooded him at that thought, and he knew that despite the ravages of the Quest, he would never regret getting to know them, or the other valiant beings – be they Men, Dwarves, or Elves – that he had encountered since leaving the Shire.

***

Éomer had told Frodo, once they had righted their clothes in the stables and retired to his chamber, that it was time for him to take Théoden King’s body back to Edoras for his funeral, and to direct the restoration of Rohan’s settlements and lands. Messengers had been going back and forth between the various regions of the Riddermark and Minas Tirith, to assess the damage and loss in lives, homes, horses, livestock, and goods. But there was only so much Éomer could direct from afar, so it was high time for him to return home and truly take up his duties as the new King of the Mark.

Frodo had swallowed down the pain at this reminder that all too soon he and Éomer would have to part. It was also time for the Hobbits to return to the Shire, and thus he had told Éomer, and the following day Aragorn, so they could travel with the Rohirrim for part of the journey. The High King and Queen would accompany the burial procession, along with Faramir and his uncle, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, the Elves who had come for the coronation and stayed for the royal wedding, as well as Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli.

And so it was that a few days after Frodo had talked to Aragorn, the Kings of Gondor and Rohan went to the Hallows, where Théoden King had been laid to rest amongst Gondor’s Kings of old for a time, and the King’s Guard of the Mark bore him upon a golden bier through the city in silence before laying him on a great wain. Merry, as his esquire, would ride with him and keep his weapons, while Pippin would ride with the knights of Gondor. Those _Eorlingas_ wounded too severely to go on horseback would have their own wains to ride in, with pallets and blankets for their comfort, and medical supplies for their care.

Éomer’s face was stoic throughout the proceedings, but Frodo’s heart hurt for him nonetheless: he knew the young King well enough by now to see that inside he was not so unaffected. It may have been months since Théoden’s death, but the loss was still fresh enough to hurt deeply.

At last the travelling company mounted their horses and wains, and departed from Minas Tirith.

“We’re goin’ home, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said with a contented smile, which Frodo did his best to return as they passed the gates.

 _Home_ , Frodo thought, _at long last. But will it still feel like home?_

Even before he and Sam had reached the Black Land, he had resigned himself never to see the Shire again. But now that their return had gone from a seeming impossibility to certainty, in truth he didn’t quite know how to feel about it. Certainly he missed Bag End and Hobbiton and the Shire’s green rolling hills and bountiful gardens, and the lakes and rivers and the peaceful life there. He even missed most of its inhabitants, quirky and uninterested in the outside world as they were. But Frodo was not the same carefree Hobbit he had once been, and even then he’d never entirely fit in, so how could he now? Of course, his favourite cousins would be there, and dear Sam, and they all shared an even tighter bond now than they did before their recent misadventures, but the three others had families and lives to go back to – Sam for one could hardly stop talking about Rosie once plans for their trip home were made. Frodo would be... alone. Truly alone. There would be no one who could pull him out from under the threat of a black mood by the merest look or touch; no one to fill the emptiness inside of him by pouring all of himself into Frodo; no one to help him find himself again by making him forget anything but the physical pleasure they shared; no one who could take him apart and rebuild him better, more complete than he’d been before. And no one for Frodo to take care of in kind.

Frodo’s eyes were inevitably drawn to the young King of Rohan riding at the head of the company beside his sister and Faramir, though he made an effort to keep from outright staring. He wished he could be there for him, to soothe the pain he must be feeling, but this was not the time nor the place. All he could do was hope that they would still be able to come together some nights on this long journey surrounded by so many, so Éomer could let go of his rigid control then, and pour all his pain and uncertainty into Frodo. He swore to himself to make the most of what little time they had left together, to shore up memories that they could both hold close for the time, soon to come, when they were alone again.

***

Frodo left the tent he shared with Sam, Merry, and Pippin once they had all finally fallen asleep that night, and made his way on silent feet through the quiet camp towards Éomer’s tent. He found no guard outside, so after only a moment’s hesitation, Frodo lifted the tent flap and stepped into the dim interior, lit only by a couple of lanterns. Éomer, clad in a simple tunic and breeches, sat on an ornately carved wooden chair, head leaning on his right hand and seemingly lost in thought. Still he noticed Frodo immediately and straightened, reaching for him, pulling him into his arms for a long, deep, hungry kiss. When they came up for air Frodo found himself on the chair, his own legs barely fitting into the narrow gap between the chair’s armrests and Éomer’s strong thighs which he was now straddling. One of Éomer’s hands drifted down Frodo’s back to cup his arse, pulling him in so they could both feel each other’s arousal through layers of cloth. They gasped in unison at the contact, Frodo throwing back his head, his Horselord immediately taking advantage and attaching his mouth to the pale skin of Frodo’s exposed throat. He trailed kisses down, then over, then up, then over, then down again to gently nip at the juncture of Frodo’s neck and left shoulder, eliciting soft moans all the while. Éomer slid off the chair until they both knelt face to face, and they set to divesting each other of their clothes.

His Horselord took him bent over his saddle on the fur-covered ground, a cloth between Frodo’s teeth and tied at the back of his head so as to prevent his cries from being heard outside, though he was fairly certain they were only partially successful with that measure. Éomer, for his part, had to stifle his own noises of passion by gripping the muscles on Frodo’s shoulder between his teeth, strong enough to bruise, yet careful enough not to draw blood. Something that secret dark part inside Frodo regretted, but the rational part of him admitted would not have been wise, with a lengthy journey still ahead of them.

After, Éomer massaged the travel-sore muscles in Frodo’s rump, thighs, and back, before they curled up under the covers on the young King’s surprisingly comfortable cot. Frodo slept deeply, and snuck back to his own bedroll before dawn, leaving Éomer with a kiss and a promise to be back that night.

***

At the end of the third day of travel, when Frodo and Sam were laying out their bedrolls in their tent while Merry and Pippin were still busy with their respective duties, Sam suddenly said, “Better tell Éomer King to be gentle with you, Mr. Frodo. It’s a long ride yet ‘til we arrive in Edoras.”

Frodo found that he had inhaled his own spit, and ended up coughing and spluttering for a while before he was finally able to stutter, “Wha- what are you talking about, Sam?” as he stared at his friend. He could feel a blush cover his thrice-damned fair skin, but that might be attributed to the coughing rather than embarrassment. _Or let’s be honest,_ Frodo thought, _utter mortification._

Sam looked at him with a lopsided smile and a raised eyebrow as he sat down on his bedroll. “Pardon me, but your discomfort in the saddle these past two days didn’t seem to be from ridin’ the pony.”

Frodo blinked – he had hoped that he’d been able to fool his friends, but of course Sam, so attuned to Frodo’s needs and discomforts after their long journey together, would notice!

Sam continued, “And don’t think we hadn’t long noticed you sneakin’ about, or the way you an’ Mr. Éomer King look at each other when you think no one’s watchin’. ‘Sides, Gandalf and Strider aren’t as subtle as they might think when they talk about how good two certain someones are for each other.”

Frodo knew his face must be beet red by now from the heat spreading across his cheeks and down his throat and chest. “Does... does everybody know?” he asked, not sure if he should be more mortified, upset about the loss of privacy, or relieved that there was no need for subtlety anymore – and likely hadn’t been for a good long while, if what Sam said was true.

Sam shrugged. “Nah. Just the Fellowship. And a good number of Éomer King’s men, most like, what with them seeing you together all the time. Certainly Lady Arwen knows from Strider, and I’d imagine at least Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel know too, not that most of them Elves care ‘bout the doings of Men or Hobbits.” He thought for a moment. “I’d be surprised if the Lady Éowyn hasn’t noticed, preoccupied though she is with Lord Faramir. She knows her brother too well, and I’ve seen her sending some _looks_ your way when you were ridin’ next to Éomer King.”

Frodo groaned and threw himself face down onto his bedroll.

_In other words: Everybody knows._

***

Supper was usually taken around several fires lit throughout the camp, with some mingling and changing of configurations any given night. That night, Frodo sat with the other Hobbits, Aragorn, Arwen, and Faramir, and watched as at the next fire over, Éomer was being teased – at least he thought that was what was happening, from the few words of Rohirric that he understood – by several of his Riders including Marshal Elfhelm and Captain Éothain, with Éowyn adding the occasional remark with an impish grin. Though theirs was a funeral procession, there was still laughter and lightness to be had. Frodo smiled, watching for a while as the Rohirrim exchanged words and laughed, and when he turned back to his meal he found Arwen’s eyes on him with an all-too-knowing look. He swallowed hard, trying to suppress the pain that threatened to rise, and looked down into his bowl. Then Pippin asked Aragorn for a story about his days as a Ranger, and as he obliged, Frodo’s eyes wandered to Éomer again, finding the Horselord already watching him with a soft look in his eyes, and he sternly reminded himself again that they were not separated yet.

***

When he arrived at Éomer’s tent that night – slightly earlier than was his habit, for there was no reason to wait if the others knew perfectly well where he spent his nights anyway – Frodo accepted a cup of ale and, after a sip, complained to Éomer about his companions having known all along – or at least for quite a while – about their involvement. Éomer, sat across from Frodo on the furs and leaning back against some pillows, blinked and thought about it for a moment, then smiled. “I am glad that your friends seem to be happy for us. I certainly wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of Master Samwise’s frying pan. I was told he wields it rather well,” he said with a teasing grin, before turning serious again and looking into Frodo’s eyes. “As for anyone else, let them gossip if they want. I care not.”

Frodo felt warmth bloom inside his chest and set down his cup to crawl across to Éomer, putting his hands upon his shoulders as he straddled the Man’s long, outstretched legs. “Neither do I,” he said before he kissed him, and soon Éomer rolled them down onto the furs, where he proceeded to take Frodo apart slowly, gently, but no less thoroughly or ruthlessly, until Frodo was driven beyond coherence and even thought in his desperate need for release. He ended up reaching it twice within short order, a thing he hadn’t known was possible before now. As he lay on the furs utterly spent, he felt as if parts of him were floating off, but slowly, with soft words and caresses and kisses, Éomer put him back together again, until he felt himself once more firmly rooted in his body – possibly more so than since before he had set out from Hobbiton.

Frodo was practically asleep already when Éomer, as was their routine on this journey, started massaging his body. Still, the next morning Frodo was slightly aching in some places that he hadn’t known could ache. Gentle his Horselord may have been with him, but clearly their prolonged bout of lovemaking had strained new muscles, and strained previously well-used ones even more than usual. Frodo decided that the deep sense of peace he felt, which lingered all day, was well worth enduring the aches – as well as Sam’s grumbling about certain stubborn Hobbits and Horselords ignoring sound advice, which, to his credit, he stopped quickly once he noticed Frodo’s serenity.

After their noontime rest, Frodo rode alongside Éomer, who suddenly said in a quiet voice, “You seem... lighter, today.”

Frodo smiled curiously at him. “Lighter?”

Éomer nodded. “Less burdened, I guess. More carefree. Lighter of spirit.”

Frodo hummed in reply. “I guess I am, yes.”

“Good.” His smile was rather self-satisfied, but Frodo couldn’t find it in him to tease him about it. The feeling was rather well-deserved, after all.

They rode on in silence for a while, then Éomer took a quick look around them before he leaned closer. “Sam told me earlier that whatever I did for you last night ‘done right wonders’ for your mood.”

“He _what_?” In his surprise, Frodo pulled at the reins, and Éomer quickly reached over to calm his pony, Strider, as he jerked.

“Careful, Frodo,” he said with a grin.

Frodo gave him a glare, but there was no power behind it. After a beat, he asked, “Did he really say that?”

Éomer nodded. “He came over just to thank me.”

“Ugh, so that’s where he disappeared to. I was wondering.”

“If it helps, both my sister and Éothain commented on my exceptionally good mood today.” He winced. “And then Queen Arwen made an entirely innocent remark about exercise in the fresh air being particularly good for one’s spirits. Aragorn almost fell off his horse trying not to laugh.”

Frodo couldn’t suppress some giggles. “Oh, those Gondorian courtiers won’t know what hit them!”

They both broke into laughter at the thought of the staid court of Minas Tirith being shaken up most subtly yet thoroughly by the new King and Queen.

***

Frodo went to bring Strider – his pony, not the Ranger-turned-King – an apple once they had settled into camp, then meandered back to the Hobbits’ tent, still feeling relaxed. Suddenly, he heard Éomer’s voice from somewhere behind the two tents he was just passing, talking to someone in a controlled yet clearly agitated tone. Without planning to, Frodo slowed down, then stopped close to the gap between the tents. “It is moot anyway; I have no time to think about my personal future when simply giving our people a chance to survive this coming winter will keep me more than fully occupied!”

“I understand that, Éomer,” his sister’s voice said calmly. “But you are King of the Mark now, and your life is not your own anymore as it was when you were Third Marshal.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I have little enough time left wi– Do not ask me to give that up.” His voice broke over his last words, and Frodo closed his eyes. _They are talking about me. My relationship with Éomer._

“I’m the last person who would do that, you know me. But while you enjoy these last days together, you have to start thinking about the future – yours and the Mark’s,” Éowyn said beseechingly. “You know as well as I that this is the one union that is impossible, no matter how good a match you are.” She sighed, then continued in a gentle voice, “I wish you nothing but happiness, brother. Right now it may not seem like you will find it in a way that satisfies your heart’s desire and the demands of your station, but don’t lose hope.”

There was silence, then Éowyn stepped out between the two tents before Frodo was able to move. She froze when she saw him, and for a few moments they both stood and stared at each other in embarrassment. Then Éowyn threw a quick look back over her shoulder to where Frodo assumed Éomer was still standing, but her shoulders lost some of their tension: obviously he hadn’t noticed her faltering. She gave Frodo a sad smile and a nod before she left.

Frodo retraced his steps for a short distance to avoid running into Éomer, then wandered around camp thinking about what he had heard.

***

At supper, the Hobbits shared the campfire with Éowyn. Éomer was nowhere to be seen, which might have been a result of the siblings’ conversation, or simply because he was being held up, so Frodo tried not to worry. Once Legolas, Gimli, and Gandalf had joined them and had the others distracted, Éowyn moved to sit next to Frodo and said quietly, “I am sorry if what I said to Éomer hurt you, Frodo. I haven’t seen him so happy since... well, since before our parents died, to be honest. Was he still Third Marshal of the Riddermark, he would have more freedom in his choice of a partner, but as King...”

Frodo nodded, pointedly ignoring Gandalf’s subtle interest in their conversation. The wizard had better hearing than he would have others believe. “Nothing that you said was untrue, and I am sure that Éomer has thought those same things many times already.” _As have I._ “But if the Quest has taught me anything, it is to take each day as they come and to keep going, no matter how bleak the future may look.” He looked her in the eye. “There are too few days left for us together now; we can worry about the after when its time comes. I intend to enjoy every moment until then.”

Éowyn smiled sadly. “I can understand why he is so taken with you.” She lifted her cup of ale. “To the happy present, then?”

Frodo tipped his cup against hers. “To the happy present.”

Éomer joined their group shortly thereafter, and finding his sister and his lover talking smilingly, he sat down on Éowyn’s other side, squeezing her shoulder briefly before accepting a bowl of stew and listening as Éowyn told Frodo of her favourite places in and around Edoras while he ate. If he was a little quieter than was his wont, no one remarked on it. Nor did Frodo comment on the way Éomer wouldn’t let go of him once they were ensconced in his tent, muscled body covering Frodo’s smaller frame completely and pushing his front into the mattress as he claimed him on his cot. Frodo held on to him just as tightly when afterwards he rested in his Horselord’s arms.

***

Towards the end of their eighth day of travel, the Great West Road emerged from Firien Wood and they crossed a bridge that spanned a stream. “This is the Mering, the border between Gondor and Rohan. Welcome to the Riddermark!” Éomer told Frodo and Sam. “We will set up camp over there,” he pointed towards a flat area slightly ahead to their left, between the Great West Road and the White Mountains, “so we can take advantage of the fresh water from the stream.”

It was as if Éomer’s shoulders had lost some of their tension with the crossing of the border, and Frodo observed that a lightness seemed to have come over all the _Eorlingas_ , as if the land of their birth itself lifted their spirits. Soon several of them broke into song, and kept on through raising the camp, taking turns with some of the Elves. The music of the two peoples, outwardly so different in looks and manner and speech, was surprisingly harmonious, for many of the Rohirric songs had a melancholy to them that matched the Elven ones.

Having washed up as thoroughly as possible with plenty of fresh water but no bathtub, the Hobbits ended up sharing the fire that night with the two Kings, Queen Arwen and her father and brothers, Lady Éowyn, Lord Faramir, and Prince Imrahil. While Arwen was conversing quietly with her family, the Prince of Dol Amroth mused that once his daughter Lothíriel learned of the singing she would complain about missing it, for she was always eager to learn new songs to sing, accompanied by her harp.

“Really? And why did you not share that information prior to my wedding, my friend? We would have enjoyed hearing her sing and play,” Aragorn asked in a mock chiding voice.

“Only one woman should be the centre of attention at her wedding, my Lord King,” Imrahil replied smoothly, bowing his head to a smiling Arwen, and everyone else chuckled.

Éomer grinned and said, “Well, Imrahil, I may not be able to make promises regarding the music of the Elves, but I am quite certain that your daughter will have another occasion to hear the songs of the Mark.” He cast a significant look at Éowyn and Faramir.

“I am sure we can accommodate some Rohirric songs at our wedding feast,” Faramir said, squeezing Éowyn’s hand affectionately, “And I would love to have Lothí sing and play her harp too, Uncle.”

Éowyn agreed enthusiastically, and they continued talking about the wedding. Éomer’s eyes caught Frodo’s, and for a moment it seemed as if he was going to say something, but then his expression sobered and he instead turned his attention to his food until Éowyn drew him into the conversation again. Frodo swallowed, almost certain that he had been about to say something about Frodo attending the wedding. They had agreed, before their departure from Minas Tirith, to not speak of what the future may or may not hold for _them_ until they were in Edoras, but it was difficult sometimes when everyone else talked freely of their own future.

The Elves and Aragorn were the first to leave the fire, deciding on a moonlight stroll before retiring, then Imrahil excused himself to attend to some correspondence. Soon after, Faramir asked leave of Éomer – and was given it, with a good-natured jab about staying outside within view of others – to accompany Éowyn to her tent, and suddenly Sam, Merry, and Pippin decided that the group from Rivendell had had the right idea and that a constitutional before bedtime was just the thing they needed. Before they could do more than wish the trio a good night, a bemused Éomer and Frodo found themselves alone at the fire. Taking advantage of the relative privacy, with most others either deep in conversation at one of the other fires or already having retired to their tents, they just sat together for a while. Frodo leaned back against Éomer’s chest as the larger man’s arms and legs cradled him, enjoying the warmth and light of the dancing flames. Under the cover of the flickering play of shadow and light, Éomer gently teased his hands and mouth over Frodo’s body, brushing his nipples through the soft fabric of his shirt, playfully nipping the side of his neck just above the collar, running his fingers lightly, all-too-briefly up the inside seam of his trousers. He didn’t stop until he had coaxed a soft moan from Frodo and his hands were gripping Éomer’s wrists tightly.

“You better take me to your tent right now, unless you want the whole camp to see what we get up to at night,” Frodo managed to say in a husky voice, and with a chuckle, Éomer pulled him up with him as he stood. Thankfully his tent was close enough that they made it there before the need to tear off each other’s clothes became overwhelming.

***

Four days later, they arrived in Aldburg, the Mark’s old capital, where they would stay for two nights. The town proudly stood on a green hill between the White Mountains and the Great West Road, in the tall grasslands called the Folde which were the ancient and historic centre of Rohan. This was where Éowyn and Éomer had been born and lived until the death of their parents, when Théoden had taken them in. They had only visited every now and then as they grew up, but once he’d been named Third Marshal of the Riddermark, Éomer had spent more time here, since among his duties was to administer the East-mark, and to oversee the assembly of the Rohirrim east of the River Entwash at the Muster of the East-mark. After the battle of Helm’s Deep, Éomer had passed on the latter duty to Elfhelm, who had previously commanded the garrison of Edoras.

The crowds lining the streets as the host made their way towards the Hall were clearly filled with grief at seeing Théoden’s body carried on the wain, but also joy at welcoming back their Lord-turned-King and his sister to their ancestral home. Some of the other Rohirrim of course hailed from Aldburg too, and soon there were cries of excited welcome as families saw their returned relatives, with children running along the horses waving and staring in wonder at the many strangers in their midst.

The Great Hall of Aldburg was a tall and wide wooden building, with great double doors leading in the front, and a gable roof of wooden shingles. In Rohirric fashion, carvings of knotwork and horses adorned its outside. The travellers were welcomed in front of the Hall with bread and salt by a group of women, led by whom Frodo assumed must be Blaedswith, the elderly but still very spry housekeeper who, Éomer had told him, had held her position since before his birth. As soon as the formal greeting was over, Éomer and Éowyn together engulfed the housekeeper in a tight threeway embrace. It wasn’t only Blaedswith’s eyes that shimmered with tears at this reunion, before Éomer pulled himself away to honour his duties as host and introduce his guests to the housekeeper and his steward, Glaedwine.

The King’s Guard carried Théoden’s body to a large, cool root cellar that was dug into the ground, where he would rest until they started on the last stretch of his final journey to Edoras. Meanwhile Blaedswith invited everyone inside the Hall for a light meal. Most of the Elves would be setting up their tents outside the wooden city walls, the soldiers boarding in the garrison or with families, but for the members of the Fellowship, Aragorn and Arwen and her kin, as well as Faramir and Imrahil, rooms had been readied in a guest house right next to the Hall.

Having taken the measure of Faramir with a few pointed questions and remarks, the housekeeper seemed to approve of him, to Éowyn’s barely concealed relief and delight, but when she turned to Éomer to inquire about the state of his love life, he impatiently waved her off. “I have much more important problems right now than looking for a wife, Blaedswith, you know that.”

She demurred, but seemed to pick up on a certain studied innocence among those sitting nearby, and Frodo could have sworn that her eyes lingered on him just a little longer than on the others before she excused herself to see if their rooms were ready. He would not be surprised to find his measure being taken, too, while he was staying at Éomer’s ancestral home.

***

Supper was simple, but delicious, with roasted meat and a variety of vegetables, bread with butter, and gravy. Aldburg had not fared too badly during the war, though its food supplies had started to become a little stretched by the end of spring due to an influx of refugees from the surrounding areas. Still, the fields nearby were undamaged, and the crop so far looked promising, and there were still plenty of cattle, pigs, sheep, goats, and chickens for dairy, meat, and eggs, supplemented by the occasional hunt. Éomer and Éowyn would have to spend some time the next morning with Glaedwine, Blaedswith, and Elfhelm to document the state of things and to implement different plans to account for possible scarcity of various resources.

After supper, most of the Elves of Lórien and Rivendell withdrew to their accommodations, with only Arwen and her brothers remaining. Éomer invited them all into his study for a drink, along with the Fellowship, Faramir, and Imrahil, and they spent some time there in conversation between friends. Most retired after but an hour, happy to make the most of their time in a proper bed instead of a bedroll or cot, and when at last Aragorn and Arwen bid a good night, only Frodo was left.

“It seems you have been abandoned by all your friends, _mín Holbytla_ ,” Éomer said with a teasing smile, standing from his chair to put his empty goblet on his desk.

“Indeed. Who will now protect me from the dangers of this unfamiliar wild place?” Frodo gave him his best wide-eyed look from his seat on a cushion in front of the unlit hearth, though he could not keep the smile from his lips.

“I heard rumour of a most fearsome beast who resides here. He is fierce and ruthless, and none have been able to best him or tame him.” Slowly Éomer stalked towards Frodo as he spoke, not stopping until he towered over him.

Frodo leaned back on his hands so he could look up at Éomer’s face. “That beast sounds fearsome indeed. Is there anything I can do to earn his mercy?”

Éomer’s eyes glittered in the light of the wall sconces. “There is a secret that no one knows about the beast. If someone were to submit to him without question, without ulterior motive, he would become gentle.”

Frodo took a deep breath, feeling his blood flowing heavy through his body, pulsing in his groin. “I will gladly submit to the beast, for I find myself wanting to experience both his fierceness and his gentleness.”

He leaned back his head even farther, exposing his throat to Éomer as a sign of his submission, and Éomer growled and fell to his knees in front of Frodo to pull him into his lap, mouth fastening to his throat. He groaned after a few gentle bites, clearly holding back. “I want to mark you, for all to see that you are mine, but I know I should not,” he ground out in an agonised, half-drunk voice.

Frodo swallowed, the feeling of Éomer’s teeth against his jugular intoxicating. “There are other... other places you can mark me,” he finally was able to say, ‘Less visible while clothed. But...” he gasped as his Horselord’s teeth nipped at his collarbone, “ _we_ would know about them. I could feel them every time my clothes rub against them.”

Éomer lifted his head, the hazel of his eyes almost completely taken over by black. “You would let me do that?”

“Yes!”

Éomer groaned and kissed him hard, then pulled Frodo’s head back by his hair, giving him a dark, wicked grin. “Let the beast carry you into his lair, then.”

***

They were both awake before first light, and Éomer was a little embarrassed, but mostly enamoured with the number of marks he had left on Frodo’s body the previous night. He kept pressing gentle kisses to them, consequently distracting Frodo from his business of getting out of bed and dressed, again and again.

“Enough!” Frodo finally said, laughter in his voice as he shoved Éomer down onto the pillows and swiftly slid out of bed, “or I’ll never make it out of your room. You have duties to attend, as you well know.”

Éomer sighed, watching Frodo pull his smallclothes and breeches on. “It is your fault. You suggested that I mark you.”

Frodo sniggered as he buttoned up his shirt, suppressing a shiver at the ache caused by the cloth moving over the marks. “Had I known just how they would affect you, I might have refrained. Then again...” he leaned on the mattress, waistcoat in one hand, and gave Éomer a seductive smile, “I am really looking forward to seeing your reaction every time you see me and think of the marks you left on me.”

He easily danced out of Éomer’s reach as the Man grabbed for him with a groan.

“You will be the death of me. Next time I’ll have to think it through before I follow your ‘helpful suggestions’!”

“With the head on your shoulders, preferably,” Frodo called back, pulling his coat on as he made his way to the door. “See you later!” he added cheerfully as he rushed out of Éomer’s room with a grin.

***

He had barely taken a few steps down the hallway when the housekeeper came around the corner at a determined pace, and Frodo’s grin and good mood disappeared, replaced by apprehension. She was obviously on her way somewhere, but as soon as she saw him she stopped, clearly startled, eyes flicking to the door of Éomer’s room and back to take in his slightly dishevelled appearance.

“Good morning, Master _Holbytla_ ,” she said, not unkindly but her tone somewhat cool. “You are up and about early.”

“Good morning, Mistress Blaedswith,” Frodo replied with a nod of his head. “It has become a habit of mine these past months to rise before the sun.”

“Indeed,” she said with an inscrutable expression, “Éomer King has long had that habit, too.” She studied him silently for a few moments while he tried to decide whether it would be rude to simply wish her a good day and move on, but suddenly she asked, “Do you wish for breakfast?”

Frodo shook his head. “Thank you, but I can wait a little. I will return to my room now and join everyone else for breakfast in the Hall later.”

“Very well. I wish you a good day, Master _Holbytla_ ,” she said with a bow of her head, and barely waited for him to reciprocate before sweeping past him.

Frodo released a deep breath of relief. He briefly considered going back to Éomer and telling him about his not-quite-confrontation with his housekeeper, but decided that the King had enough weighing on his mind already. She might not even bring up Frodo’s early morning presence with Éomer. So he did as he’d told Mistress Blaedswith and returned to the Hobbits’ room in the guesthouse to freshen up and join his friends for breakfast in the Hall, and to see what plans Merry, Pippin, and Sam had for the day.

***

Merry and Pippin had to attend their respective duties first thing after breakfast, but they would have the afternoon free and promised to join Frodo and Sam on a stroll around town. Frodo still found it difficult sometimes to reconcile these earnest, sometimes weary young soldiers with his beloved younger cousins – at least until they took off their uniforms and weapons, and jested with him and Sam as irreverently as they used to before they left the Shire. If he were one for fancies, Frodo might have said it was almost as if their nigh irrepressible spirits had grown along with their bodies, tempered with a pinch of hard-won wisdom.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mr. Frodo?” Sam’s voice called him back from his musings as he watched his cousins leave the Hall.

He smiled across the table at his friend. “Just marvelling at how much these two have grown up since our parting – and not just in body.”

“Aye, that they have. Though forgive me for saying, it’s summat of a strange relief that they haven’t grown up completely.”

Frodo chuckled in agreement, then pushed away his plate. “So. Any idea how to spend the morning, my dear Sam?”

“Well, I did see a few fields outside the city walls that I’d like to go see, you know, find out what they grow here compared to Gondor. Would you like to come with me?”

“Why not? A bit of walking would be a welcome change from all the riding, and I have nothing better to do.” _And no one,_ his treacherous mind supplied, but he bit down firmly on that comment. He didn’t need any more teasing from his friends, gentle as they were about it.

So he and Sam set out for a leisurely walk to find out what farmers grew in the fields of Rohan.

***

Éomer and Éowyn joined their guests for the noontime meal, which was an informal affair with people coming and going. Frodo and Sam had waited for Merry and Pippin to join them, and due to their insistence on changing back into civilian clothes first, they were a little later than intended, and the Hall was fairly full already, so they wandered around in search of available seats.

“There,” Merry said suddenly, pointing towards the back, where Lady Galadriel, Lord Celeborn, Elrohir and Elladan had just stood from the head table. They cordially greeted the Hobbits as they passed them on their way out of the Hall. Merry, who with his longer legs had taken the lead, stepped up to the head table. “May we join you, Éomer King?” he asked with a slight bow.

“You and your friends will always be welcome at my table, Master Holdwine,” Éomer said, and waved them into the seats across from him and his sister, newly vacated by the Elves. Soon servants brought plates of food, and they tucked in.

“How fares Aldburg?” Frodo asked, looking between Éomer and Éowyn, who had turned from her conversation with Faramir to greet them.

“Surprisingly well, all things considered. It is the outlying areas both here in the East-mark and in the West-mark that worry me,” Éomer confessed.

“We will have to wait until we are in Edoras, and can look over the reports that have come in so far, before we can come up with a complete image,” Éowyn added.

“Gondor will be happy to help in any way we can,” Faramir said from her other side.

Éomer subtly shifted in his chair – had Frodo not learned to read him so well by now, he might have missed it – before he bowed his head to Faramir. “I thank you for your gracious offer.”

Faramir clearly sensed Éomer’s uneasiness too, but he did not push the point, just smiled and nodded at his future brother-by-law.

“And how did you spend this fine morning?” Éowyn asked the Hobbits, smoothly changing the topic to something less laden.

“Sam and I explored some of the fields outside the town walls,” Frodo said. “He has taken an interest in what crops are grown in different areas, haven’t you, Sam?”

“Aye. ‘Tis fascinating to see what crops are grown and what methods people in different regions use. Who knows how that knowledge might help us some day. I already have some ideas to try out once we’re back in the Shire.”

Faramir chuckled. “Sounds like you won’t get bored anytime soon after your return home, Master Samwise.”

The other three Hobbits laughed, and Pippin said, “I don’t think Sam has been bored a single minute of his life! He always finds something to occupy himself with.”

Sam shrugged. “A thing needs doing, I’ll do it if I can. Sitting idle is what leads you into trouble, my Gaffer says.”

Frodo smirked, and elbowed Pippin. “Words to heed, don’t you think, Pippin? Merry?”

Merry snorted. “As if you had never got into trouble! Wasn’t it you who showed Pip and me where the best mushrooms grow in Farmer Maggot’s fields?”

Éomer affected a shocked countenance. “A mushroom thief? _You_ , Frodo?”

Frodo grinned unapologetically. “I have long since repented of my misguided youthful ways. Besides, stealing mushrooms from Farmer Maggot is a traditional rite of passage among tweens of the Shire. As their elder cousin, it was my responsibility to keep the tradition going.”

As the whole table broke into laughter, Frodo moved in a way that chafed one of the marks Éomer had left on his shoulder, and his Horselord immediately caught the way Frodo’s breath hitched momentarily. Their eyes caught for a moment, and Frodo had to look away lest the heat in Éomer’s gaze cause any awkward physical reactions. As he did so, he noticed Blaedswith to the side of the Hall, watching Éomer with a sort of puzzled fascination, then turning her eyes to him. When she found that she had been caught out she bowed her head to him and retreated down the Hall. Frodo wondered what was going through her head, but told himself not to let her scrutiny trouble him. Even if she disapproved, he’d only be here until the morning after next, and she’d never have to lay eyes on him again.

***

Éomer and Éowyn had some free time immediately after their meal, so they offered to show any of their friends who were interested around town. The Hobbits and Faramir immediately agreed, as did Aragorn, Arwen, and Prince Imrahil, whom they met conversing outside the Hall. Éothain, who had also grown up in Aldburg and was a childhood friend, invited himself along with the excuse that his King needed a guard. In reality, Frodo suspected the burly but jovial Rohir just couldn’t pass up a chance to embarrass his friend and liege lord in front of a new audience with stories of mischief from their childhood and their time as Riders in training. Éomer rolled his eyes and threatened violence, and when that didn’t work, to tell Éothain’s wife about his disrespectful behaviour. But clearly he wasn’t too bothered about being teased by his friend in present company. Besides, the young King had enough stories to share in turn about Éothain’s youthful misdeeds, and soon the Captain called for a truce.

They also found out that Éothain, Éomer and Éowyn shared an _eald ealdfaeder_ – a great-grandfather – through Éothain’s mother and the siblings’ father, Éomund, which made them all descendants of Brego King’s youngest son, Eofor. The lordship of Aldburg had passed to Eofor when Brego moved the King’s court to the newly completed Golden Hall in Edoras, and had remained in the family ever since.

The group broke up once Éomer and Éowyn had to excuse themselves to their duties. Éomer quickly took Frodo aside with a hand on his shoulder. “I will see you at the feast tonight. There will be seats at the head table for the four of you.”

Frodo smiled. “Thank you, Éomer. I’ll see you then.”

Éomer smiled back and discreetly let his thumb brush Frodo’s cheek when he lifted his hand from his shoulder, the corners of his mouth twitching up at the sight of Frodo’s blush just before he turned away and joined Éowyn and Faramir on their way back to the Hall.

Suddenly Frodo felt as if he was being watched. He let his eyes roam as he rejoined Sam, Merry, and Pippin, but couldn’t make out anyone’s eyes on him, so he shook it off and followed the others back to a bakery they had passed earlier. It wasn’t long until afternoon tea, after all, and they’d seen a nice bench that seemed perfect to relax, eat, and people watch.

***

After a while, Frodo had broken off from the others to explore a small library that Éomer had casually pointed out during their earlier tour. At that time Frodo hadn’t wanted to hold up the whole group, but also couldn’t pass up the chance to see it when the other Hobbits decided to return to their guest room. Despite only having a small collection of documents, Frodo had spent a good amount of time in the library, plying the librarian with questions, and was now hurrying towards the guest house to wash up before supper.

He was idly looking around as he walked when suddenly he found himself arrested by the sight of Éomer inspecting some of this year’s foals and their dams in a nearby paddock. He was accompanied by Aldburg’s stablemaster, Gramwulf, steward Glaedwine, Elfhelm, and Éothain. Éomer took the inspection seriously, running his hands over the foals’ and dams’ bodies, listening to Gramwulf’s explanations and answers to his questions. Clearly he enjoyed being among the horses, his stance relaxed and manner free with affectionate touches before and after inspecting each, all the while talking to them softly. Even a particularly skittish foal, one of the youngest yet from the looks of it, who was hiding behind its dam’s body at first, eventually let him touch it after being lulled by his gentle coaxing and soothing words in that resonant, deep velvety voice. It was fascinating to watch, almost hypnotic, and rather reminiscent of how Éomer would handle Frodo after their more vigorous encounters. He felt a slight blush rise at the thought, though thankfully he didn’t embarrass himself by a certain body part doing the same. Just then Éothain said something that caused the two older men to laugh, and Éomer playfully punched him in the shoulder with a retort and a big grin on his face as they walked over to the next dam and foal.

Frodo smiled softly. It was good to see Éomer so relaxed amongst his people. The memory would soothe his worries once he was back in the Shire. With effort, he pulled himself away from the scene and turned towards the guest house again, nodding in acknowledgment at Blaedswith as he found her watching him from the corner of the Hall.

***

The Hall was filled nigh to bursting that night at the feast, with scarcely enough space between the tables to pass. A long line of tables led down the nave of the Hall, starting at the middle of the head table and only interrupted by the fire pit at the Hall’s heart, continuing from its other end almost all the way to the main door. Rows of tables spread out on either side past the carved pillars, and would have looked almost like the legs of a centipede, in Frodo’s mind, had they been connected to the central tables.

As Éomer had promised, there were seats for the Hobbits at the head table, on the side facing away from the main doors. To his bemusement, Frodo’s friends ushered him very skillfully and unobtrusively to the closest seat to Éomer, across from Aragorn who had been given the place of honour to Éomer’s right. Merry sat next to Frodo, across from Arwen, followed by Sam and Pippin, then Elladan at the end, who had his twin opposite him, with Imrahil and Elrond between him and Arwen.

Gandalf winked and smiled at Frodo from his seat mirroring Frodo’s on the other side of the central line of tables, with Faramir across from him and to Éowyn's left, and Frodo smiled back happily. The rest of the seats were taken up by Galadriel, Celeborn, Gimli, and Legolas.

There was pork, roasted on the central fire pit, accompanied by vegetables and baked apples, as well as sweet and savoury hand pies, and the light ale that was traditionally served with meals in Rohan. Frodo listened raptly as Aragorn and Éomer told stories of their lives as Ranger and Rider, respectively, and Éomer was captivated by Aragorn’s stories of serving in Rohan under his grandfather, Thengel.

After the meal, Éomer and Éowyn walked along the tables starting at the far end where the common folk sat, talking, clasping arms and shoulders, and holding hands or exchanging hugs with almost all inhabitants of Aldburg present, particularly those who had lost family members to the war. They all seemed happy, and in some cases awed, at their Lord and Lady’s gesture.

Steward Glaedwine noticed Frodo watching and said, “Our Lord is very popular with his people,” sounding quietly proud. “He has ever been a champion for the weak and poor, which should stand him in good stead now that he is King.”

Frodo saw Éomer briefly speak to the housekeeper near the fire pit before moving on, and said “Blaedswith seems very close to Éomer and Éowyn.”

Glaedwine nodded. “Indeed she is. She was like an aunt or grandmother to the two of them when they were little. And though the children moved to Edoras after their parents’ death, their bond with her remained strong.”

Frodo nodded in understanding, and eventually Elfhelm pulled the steward into a discussion with himself and Gandalf, so Frodo turned his attention to his friends’ explanation of birthday mathoms and the finer points of their etiquette for the bemusement of Arwen’s family and Prince Imrahil.

***

A while later, having procured a cup of mead, Frodo stood next to one of the open side doors of the Hall, to stretch his legs and catch some fresh air. Crowds still could get a bit overwhelming at times, especially if the air got muggy. The Hall wasn’t as overly full anymore, and Éomer had found a seat among some of his household _Éored_ , including Éothain. Frodo found that he was quite content to wait for him and watch him.

“Young Éomer has been carrying a heavy burden ever since his parents died,” a voice said quietly behind him, pulling Frodo out of his meditative state. He looked back over his shoulder to see Blaedswith standing in the open door, hands clasped in front of her, her eyes on the young King, but at the same time far away. “One-and-ten he was, only four years older than his sister, yet he took it upon himself to be her guardian. He never gave up that responsibility, even when Théoden King took them in and Théodred, three-and-ten years Éomer’s senior, cared for them as if they were his younger siblings.” She sighed. “His burden only got heavier once the _wyrm_ wriggled his way into Théoden King’s council.”

Frodo turned to watch Éomer again, sensing that the housekeeper had more to say.

“I can see that his new office weighs heavy on him, too, as well it should. _Mín leóna_ always took his obligations very seriously,” she continued. “And yet... there is now a light in him that I have not seen since before his mother died. It had been dimmed with his father’s death, but once his mother followed just a few months later... it was as if it had been extinguished. Oh, he found a semblance of it again as he grew older and his grief receded, but it never truly returned.”

She stepped forward and stood to Frodo’s left, looking down at him. “It seems we have more to be thankful to you for than just destroying the One Ring, Master _Holbytla_.”

Frodo’s eyes widened as her hand gently touched his shoulder, just for a moment. Before he was able to think of a response, she smiled warmly and stepped past him, walking light-footed down the Hall, leaving Frodo reeling.

He had expected her to confront him, to maybe ask him about his intentions regarding Éomer, but not... this. This acceptance and – an expression of deep gratitude. His vision swam as his emotions nearly overwhelmed him. To be thanked for something that he had done without even realising it, that had come so naturally, so easily, and which had in no way been one-sided... He had hoped from the beginning that he could do Éomer at least a small measure of good, compared to all that the Horselord had done for him. And yes, Éowyn had already indicated earlier in their journey that her brother hadn’t been so happy since before their parents’ passing, yet somehow, the housekeeper’s words hit him with even more force than that quiet campfire confession by Éomer’s sister. Maybe because she had had less than a day’s acquaintance to go on to make her judgment. Or maybe it just took repetition for the message to really sink in.

_I haven’t seen him so happy since... well, since before our parents died, to be honest._

_And yet... there is now a light in him that I have not seen since before his mother died._

There was no way he could think of to return the housekeeper’s kindness, since they would leave for Edoras early tomorrow morning. But he would make sure that Mistress Blaedswith knew how much her graciousness meant to him.

***

Frodo again spent the night with Éomer, and this time he did not encounter anyone when he left for the guest house in the early hours. The Hobbits packed up before breakfast in the Hall, and soon everyone was assembled in front of it for the traditional send off. Before mounting his pony, Frodo stepped up to Blaedswith and lifted her hand to his lips. “Thank you, dear Mistress Blaedswith, for everything,” he said and gave her his most heartfelt smile.

The elderly woman actually blushed, and stammered for a moment before she replied, “Oh, it’s hardly worth mentioning, Master _Holbytla_ ,” and waved him off with well wishes, before determinedly presiding over the presentation of stirrup cups to the departing company, once all were ready.

A little outside of Aldburg, Éomer fell back until he was next to Frodo. “What was that about?” he asked, looking at Frodo curiously.

Frodo didn’t pretend to have no idea what Éomer was talking about; he had caught his puzzled look at Frodo’s interaction with Blaedswith, though he had been out of hearing range. “Nothing,” Frodo said with a smile, “I was only thanking your housekeeper for her generous hospitality.”

Éomer gave him a doubtful look, but then chuckled and shook his head, obviously deciding to let Frodo keep this secret.

***

They could have reached Edoras at the end of the second day out from Aldburg, but instead made camp early that night, less than two wagon hours away from Edoras, having sent ahead a messenger earlier to announce them so the household would be prepared for the funeral procession arriving in the city the next morning.

***

After fifteen days of journey, the wain of King Théoden passed through the gates of Edoras and wound its way along the main street of the city, lined by mourning citizens, towards Meduseld. After the traditional greeting with bread and salt, Théoden’s bier was carried to a cool, dark room within the stone foundations of the Golden Hall, and the travellers were led to their accommodations. King Elessar and Queen Arwen occupied what used to be Théodred’s room, Faramir and his uncle, Prince Imrahil, shared Éomer’s former room, and the rest of the Fellowship had agreed to share the same guest room where, Merry and Pippin explained, they had stayed during their last visit to Meduseld, though it now held a bed for each of them. No one mentioned the incident with the Palantir, but it was clearly on Pippin’s mind as they got settled in. Thankfully he perked up as soon as the conversation turned to Rohirric food, ale, and mead. Most of Aragorn’s soldiers and the Riders from other areas of the Mark were staying at the garrison or with families in the city, and Arwen’s family was provided a guest house near the Golden Hall, but most Elves had again chosen to set up their tents on the plane between the city walls and the River Snowbourne.

Frodo was glad to wash the dirt of the road off his body and hair for a longer stretch of time, but he didn’t linger in the tub provided behind a screen in a corner of their shared room, mindful that everyone else in their group had the same needs. There was a drain hidden under one of the stone floor tiles in the corner so the water could be renewed periodically, with servants at the ready for that purpose. Frodo wished he could have stayed with Éomer and shared his bath, but he had been swept away soon after their arrival. Naturally, his councillors were very eager to finally talk to their new King in person, and no doubt there were preparations needed for Éomer’s coronation and Théoden’s funeral. Frodo knew how much Éomer had both longed and dreaded to come home, but at least he would have his sister by his side to aid in his transition into his new role until her wedding to Faramir the following Spring. Frodo tried not to dwell on his own looming departure within little more than a week, and instead listened to Legolas teasing Gimli about their drinking contest at the victory feast after the battle of Helm’s Deep, which had been instigated by Éomer, no less.

By the evening, the Great Hall was decorated and filled with light, and a great feast was held to celebrate the end of the War and the homecoming of their new King. Éomer was crowned in a simple band of gold, in its centre a stylised sun rising behind a steep mountain, adorned with a single diamond at its base and a ruby at its peak. It was much simpler than Aragorn’s crown, but Éomer looked no less kingly wearing it, to Frodo’s mind. This was all the more true when, in Rohirric, Éomer swore in a sonorous voice that carried into every corner of the Hall to protect and promote peace for all people in his dominion, to uphold the laws of Rohan, and to be just and merciful in his judgments. A loud “Hail, Éomer King!” arose from the crowd, and soon everyone was seated and food and drink were being served.

Despite this being a more formal occasion than their meals in Aldburg, it was hearty fare, with some poultry in addition to roasted pork, again accompanied by different vegetables, as well as flat breads. The food in Rohan was more alike to what would be served in the Shire than in Gondor, which Sam, in particular, was happy about. The atmosphere was similarly more relaxed, with conversation flowing amid roaring laughter throughout the hall. Still, Frodo could not keep his attention from wandering to the young King of Rohan again and again, trying to measure his level of comfort. It seemed to Frodo’s relief that much of his unease had gone, at least for now, at being back home and celebrating amongst friends old and new. For a moment he could but wonder whether Éomer would no longer have need of him now that he was truly back amongst his own people, instead of stranded in a cold city of stone with strict rules for seemingly every little detail of life, where any kind of familiarity could bring solace.

“Éomer will make a good king to his people, do you not agree, Frodo?” the smooth voice of Legolas, who sat to his right, interrupted Frodo’s brooding before it could truly begin.

“I most certainly agree,” Frodo said, curious as to where the Elven prince was leading the conversation, since he was not one for idle words.

“From what I have observed, Éomer is a man of passion, and once he commits to a course of action, he will see it through. He is not given to inconstancy, be it in leadership or his personal life.” He looked down at Frodo, one eyebrow slightly raised, with a gentle smile. Frodo fought back a blush – damn his pale complexion – as he realised that the ever perceptive Legolas had noticed his moment of doubt. He darted another look at Éomer and found that the young King’s eyes were on him already with familiar warmth and heat. Now he definitely blushed, which made the corners of Éomer’s mouth twitch up in amusement, before his attention was drawn by Aragorn.

“Thank you,” Frodo murmured to Legolas, who gave him a graceful nod before turning back to his meal.

The feast kept on long after the food was consumed, with many people getting up and mingling, Éomer among them. Merry and Pippin, unsurprisingly, provided a significant amount of the entertainment, and while Sam and Frodo declined to join them dancing on the tables, they happily sang and clapped along with the two younger Hobbits for a while.

Eventually, Frodo was beginning to grow weary, but he was loath to leave for the shared accommodations. Unfortunately he and Éomer had not found the time to talk about arrangements for tonight before the feast, and he was uncertain where Éomer’s chambers were, or whether the young King would still feel free to have Frodo spend the night there.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the Man in question appeared at his side, sitting down next to him on the bench with a relieved sigh.

“So now that you have experienced them several times, how do Rohirric festivities measure up compared to Gondorian ones, _mín Holbytla_?” Éomer asked, clearly slightly in his cups, but nowhere near drunk.

“Oh, this is much more like the way we celebrate in the Shire,” Frodo replied with a wide smile, “Much less stuffy and formal than in Gondor – no offence,” he added with a grin towards Aragorn, who was sitting on the next bench talking to Éothain. Aragorn raised his tankard and replied with an answering grin, “None taken.”

Éomer answered with a chuckle, “I am glad that you approve,” then took a closer look at Frodo. “You seem tired,” he said more quietly, “Do you need to retire?”

Frodo shrugged. “I am tired, but I find myself reluctant to leave.” He met Éomer’s eyes, and found them softening.

“I cannot retire yet, myself, and it may still be a while, but if you wanted to... you could rest in my rooms until then. I cannot promise how sober I will be by the time I get back,” he added with a grimace, “but even so, I would prefer to sleep with you by my side, if you don’t mind.”

Frodo’s breath caught at the warmth in Éomer’s eyes. “I wouldn’t mind at all,” he managed to murmur, and Éomer signalled one of the servants flitting through the Hall as he stood. After instructing the man, he turned towards Frodo again, bowing his head. “Frithbert will show you the way. Let him know if you need anything. Until then.”

Frodo replied in kind, then turned to Sam, who was sitting on his other side talking to one of the healers of Edoras about herb lore, to let him know he would retire and that there was no cause for worry if he didn’t find him in the guest room they had been given. Sam waved him off with an indulgent smile and a cheeky “Make sure you actually get some rest, Mr. Frodo,” to which he rolled his eyes before grinning and wishing Sam a good night.

Frithbert led him to what turned out to be the King’s study. He was offered a seat in one of the plushy upholstered chairs in front of the unlit fireplace, and a cup of wine from a flagon on a narrow table along the opposite wall. After informing Frodo that if Master _Holbytla_ required anything, he need only tell the guard outside in the hallway, the servant left, closing the door behind himself. Frodo sipped at the wine slowly as he let his eyes roam around the room with its wooden walls partially covered in richly coloured wall hangings, lit sconces in between them, warm furs strewn across the floor, and carved furniture and decorations. It all gave the room a warm feel despite being mostly utilitarian. In addition to the chairs and narrow table, there was a desk with a chair behind and two in front of it, its surface holding parchments, an inkpot, and quills, as well as what looked like a neat pile of unopened correspondence, and a shelf filled with books, ledgers, and scrolls nearby. It seemed even a realm with no written language of its own relied on paper and ink for its running. Frodo remembered that Éomer had mentioned members of the Royal household and other nobles were taught speaking, reading and writing in Westron as well as Sindarin, with many in the larger cities speaking and understanding Westron at least passably well. Most who lived in smaller settlements spoke only Rohirric.

Frodo suspected this room was mostly as Théoden King had left it, since Éomer would hardly have had time to change anything since returning earlier that day. He wondered what it would look like in a few years... then firmly, he redirected his thoughts to the here and now.

A door that seemed to connect to another room stood ajar, and after a moment’s hesitation, Frodo stood to set down his wine and crossed over to push it open. It led to a small antechamber – possibly a dressing room, considering the armour stands and what looked like clothing chests – and through another open door was the King’s bedroom. Frodo’s eyebrows rose as he saw the large canopied bed in an alcove, with rich red velvet curtains hanging down over its sides. _This certainly holds promise_ , he thought with a pleased smirk. It would certainly be more comfortable than the travelling bed in Éomer’s tent, as well as the mattress on Frodo's bed in the guestroom, which was nowhere near as thick. In fact, now that he looked upon the comfortable bed in the King’s chambers, Frodo’s fatigue from the long journey, a full belly, and a long feast overcame him fully, and so he decided to take Éomer’s offer of rest literally, as he had no doubt meant it. He took off his clothes and set them neatly on top of the chest at the foot of the bed, folded back the covers on one side, and climbed up and underneath them. With a contented sigh, he allowed himself to relax.

***

Frodo was roused from deep slumber sometime later by the dip of the mattress behind him and facial hair tickling his shoulder as a gentle kiss was pressed to one of the marks from their first night in Aldburg. He hummed sleepily, covering the arm that had snaked around his waist with his own.

“Forgive me for waking you, _mín Holbytla_ ,” Éomer’s voice rumbled in his ear, only slightly slurred, “But you looked too tempting to leave unmolested.”

Frodo smiled, eyes still closed, then said with a chuckle, “I am yours to molest anytime, Éomer King.”

Éomer stilled momentarily, then continued trailing kisses up Frodo’s neck and across his jaw. “Is that so? How fortunate for me.”

“Hmmmm. Fortunate for me, too,” Frodo replied as he turned within Éomer’s embrace, only to find his Horselord shirtless already. He trailed his foot up Éomer’s legs and found them unclothed as well, and raised an eyebrow at that discovery. “Feeling lucky?”

“Every time we get to spend time together, Frodo.” For a moment Éomer gazed deep into the eyes of Frodo, who was left speechless and wide-eyed at his lover’s sincerity, but then his mouth descended onto Frodo’s in a searing kiss tasting of mead, and words were forgotten. Soon Frodo was sat astride Éomer, riding his Horselord with smooth, sure motions supported by Éomer’s strong grip on his hips, spurred on by the heat in the heavy-lidded hazel eyes watching him. Then Éomer started thrusting up every time he sank down, his rigid member filling Frodo in the most delicious way, and it didn’t take long for Frodo to reach completion, painting Éomer’s taut stomach and chest with his essence, soon followed by the sensation of Éomer filling him with his own release.

Frodo sighed contentedly as Éomer cleaned up the worst of the mess, then cradled him against his front, to rest in sated silence.

“I should go,” Frodo finally said, gently tapping Éomer’s arm in a signal to let him get up. The first light of this summer morning was showing through the stained-glass window high on the wall.

“Stay,” was the hoarse reply, accompanied by a tightening of said arm, and a nuzzle into his hair.

“And let your servants find me here? People will talk.”

Éomer’s arm tightened around him even more, voice rising. “Then let them talk!”

Frodo found himself rolled onto his back, Éomer hovering above him with a fierce look in his eyes. “My equerry will not spread gossip; he is Éothain’s younger brother and I have known him all his life. As for other servants... they are loyal to the house of Eorl and know to be discreet, and even if some should turn out to be less so, I will not let fear of gossip rule my doings. I’ll be hard pressed enough to find time for you between meetings with my council, Aragorn, Imrahil, Faramir, and Gandalf.” His eyes flashed. “Be it out among my Riders, in Aldburg, here in Edoras, in Minas Tirith, or anywhere else in Middle Earth, I am not ashamed of you... of us.”

Frodo felt his heart lurch, and reached up to caress Éomer’s cheek. “I know. Neither am I. I just... I don’t want to make this even more difficult for you than it is.”

Éomer silently shook his head, then bent down to gently kiss Frodo’s lips. One brief kiss turned into multiple, longer ones, and they were content exchanging kisses and caresses for a while. Finally, Éomer pulled back to lean his forehead against Frodo’s. “You should get some more rest. Béma knows I haven’t let you get enough last night.”

“I suppose I could do with a little nap,” Frodo murmured in reply, and he settled back against Éomer’s side with a contented sigh, and closed his eyes.

***

True to his word, Éomer didn’t act in the least embarrassed in the morning, quickly throwing on a robe to ask the guard in the hallway for breakfast to be sent to his rooms, as well as a change of clothes for Frodo. When Frodo mused that he should leave some clothes here, if he was to stay more nights, Éomer suggested, “Why not simply bring your pack? I wish to have you in my bed every night until your departure, and it’s not like your companions don’t know, anyway.”

“That... is true,” Frodo admitted. “And I would like that very much,” he added with a smile.

Soon a male servant, with hair the most vibrant shade of ginger that Frodo had yet seen among the Rohirrim, brought some of Frodo’s neatly folded clothes. Éomer introduced him as Éoric, Éothain’s brother and his equerry, and to his credit the man – less burly than his older brother, but with a similarity in his facial features – didn’t blink an eye at finding the Ringbearer in his King’s bed, clearly naked under the sheets, and the King himself in only a robe. Éoric merely told Frodo to let him know if he needed anything during his stay, then turned to his King.

“I will return shortly before your meeting with the council, my Lord?”

Éomer grimaced slightly at his old friend’s use of the honorific, but didn’t comment. “Yes, thank you, Éoric. That is all for now.”

Just as Éoric was leaving, two women bustled through the door carrying trays of food and a steaming teapot and cups, wishing them a good morning as they set down the trays on a trestle table set against the wall to the right of the bed.

“Thank you, Hild, Sunngifu,” Éomer said with a nod, and they curtseyed before flitting out of the room, dashing quick looks at Frodo on the way, to Éomer’s obvious amusement. Frodo blushed – even if gossip would not spread outside of the Hall, no doubt all working here would know by noon about him spending the night with Éomer, if they didn’t already.

Once the door had closed behind the maids, Frodo emerged from under the sheets and washed and dressed while Éomer poured them tea and piled some food on two plates, then carried them over to the bed. While they broke their fast, Éomer laid out his plans for the day, and suggested some things to see and do for Frodo and his friends. “We will likely have the midday meal at the _Witan_ ,” Éomer explained, using the Rohirric word for the council that consisted of his Marshals and the nobles of the Riddermark, “but I will see you at supper.” He paused. “And while Faramir is otherwise occupied, maybe ask Éowyn to introduce you, Merry, Pippin, and Sam to our cook, Mildthryth. It is always a good idea to make friends with the cook, particularly if you are frequently hungry,” he added with a grin.

***

Éowyn did just that, and was quite amused at how easily they charmed the cook with their enthusiastic praise of the dishes from last night’s feast. The four Hobbits left the kitchen with the promise of some recipes to take home, arms laden with freshly baked oat and honey cakes as snacks for their stroll about the city.

As they meandered along the road between Meduseld and the watchtower at the top of the hill towards noon, oat and honey cakes long gone, Sam suddenly stopped and pointed to an area at the back of the Golden Hall. “Look! There’s a garden!”

It was true. There was a small, fenced off area with various flowers and small shrubs. Curious, they went through the gate and wandered around. It quickly became clear that the garden had been neglected for a good many years, with weeds growing in between the scraggly rose bushes and various flowers growing quite uninhibitedly, crowding out their neighbours in some cases.

“I wonder if this used to belong to the last Queen?” Frodo mused.

“That’s right, I remember someone saying that Queen Morwen Steelsheen of Lossarnach, Éomer King’s grandmother, installed a garden here,” Merry exclaimed. “This must be it. With Théoden King having been under Wormtongue’s influence, it must have gone forgotten.” He looked around sadly. “‘Tis a shame. It must have been lovely once.”

“Surely now that peace has come, Éomer would like to restore it? I mean, there will be a Queen again, and children, at some point.” He shot an apologetic look at Frodo, but Frodo merely nodded, keeping his feelings about such a future to himself.

“Aye. I should very much like to make a start here, if Éomer King agrees to it,” Sam agreed firmly, clearly already making plans in his mind for the work and supplies that would be needed.

“Let’s ask him as soon as he is free, then,” Frodo said with a smile, putting his arm around Sam’s shoulders. “I am sure that he will be delighted about the offer.”

***

Frodo was correct in his assessment. He and Sam approached Éomer and Éowyn before supper, and Éomer confirmed what Merry had told them.

“It is true, Morwen Steelsheen was the one to establish that garden. My mother would sometimes work on it when we visited, after Aunt Elfhild died, but I do not think it has been tended since her passing.” Éomer looked lost in memories for a moment, but rallied himself and gave Éowyn a quick smile when she laid her hand on his arm, before looking at Sam. “I would be honoured to have you start the restoration of Morwen’s garden, Master Samwise, though it does not seem right to put my guests to work.”

Sam waved off his objection. “It’s hardly work, Mr. Éomer King. Why, you’d be doin’ me a favour! I’ve been sittin’ around idly much too long in Minas Tirith.”

Of course that was not entirely accurate, Frodo knew, for Sam had taken an interest in the gardens at the Houses of Healing there, and learned about crops and farming techniques used in Gondor. But it was true that he had not gotten as much occasion to get his hands dirty as he would have liked.

“Well, then you are welcome to do as you see fit,” Éomer said with a bow of his head.

“And let me know if you need anything,” Éowyn added. “I am fairly certain that Morwen’s gardening tools are still out in the small shed, and I will see if one or two of the women in town would be interested to help and take over from you once you have left.” She looked at her brother. “Surely some of the widows who are inclined to gardening could do with an additional income, and it won’t tax the royal purse much.”

Éomer nodded. “That is a wonderful idea, Éowyn. I’ll leave it up to you to organise the details.”

Sam beamed, happy to have a purpose, and they agreed that Éowyn and he would meet out in the garden after breakfast the next day.

***

After the second day of the _Witan_ , Éomer announced his first decree at the evening meal, which was to replace the positions of Second and Third Marshal by the titles Marshal of the East-mark and Marshal of the West-mark, who were to be held of equal rank. These positions he conferred upon Elfhelm, who had already taken on the Muster of the East-mark in Éomer’s stead after the battle of Helm’s Deep, and Erkenbrand, the Lord of the Westfold stationed in Helm’s Deep, who had stayed behind to guard Rohan while most Rohirrim rode in aid of Gondor. Both men were experienced, especially Erkenbrand, and had distinguished themselves through their leadership, and the announcement was greeted with loud cheers by all _Eorlingas_ present.

Aragorn and Faramir promised to send some much-needed supplies of food, seeds, cloth and clothing, to help those who had lost their homes, crops, and possessions. They couched it in terms of payment of _wergild_ in exchange for Rohan’s losses of lives in the battles on the Pelennor and at the Morannon, no doubt to prevent offending Rohan’s pride. The people of the Mark had been isolated for so long, they were loath to ask outsiders for help even in dire circumstances. Frodo remembered Éomer’s reluctant reaction to Faramir’s offer of Gondorian aid in Aldburg, likely for that very reason, and he suspected that Aragorn, having once served under the King’s grandfather, Thengel, had been the one to overcome this obstacle. Hopefully, with relative peace now upon Middle-earth and Éowyn’s upcoming wedding to Faramir, as well as the friendship between Éomer, Aragorn, and Imrahil, relations between Rohan and Gondor would become friendly again.

Éomer also announced that temporary accommodations would be found in less affected villages and towns for those whose settlements and lands had been destroyed. Many houses now stood empty, and most families had lost at least one member to the war, so beds and cots would be available, and hands were needed to share the daily workload. This offer was also extended to the nomadic families of herdsmen in the East Emnet whose camps had been ruined by bands of Orcs, should they wish for a reprieve over winter. For weeks already, Riders had been travelling the Mark to document for Éomer the most urgent needs of its inhabitants, and Éomer promised to visit as many of the settlements as he personally could before winter came. In the spring, they would be able to truly start the rebuilding of the Mark. This, too, was greeted with much approbation, if less enthusiasm due to the memories of the suffering that now had need for such aid.

“The lad knows how to rouse a crowd, and he seems to possess a good heart and a sensible head on his shoulders. Rohan is in capable hands,” Frodo heard Gimli say further down the table.

“I never doubted it,” was Legolas’s reply.

Frodo smiled. _Neither have I. And I hope Éomer will come to the same realisation soon._

***

On the third day after their arrival in Edoras, Théoden was laid to rest in a barrow next to the ones already lining the road outside the gate, along with his arms and many other fair things that he had possessed. Théoden’s bier was carried to the barrow by his Riders, then handed to the women lining the way for the final distance, passed hand to hand until he disappeared inside the dark doorway of his burial mound. Tears streamed down Éowyn’s cheeks as she sang a dirge, but Éomer’s face was stoic, even as the Riders of the King’s House rode around the barrow and sang a song that Théoden’s minstrel had written, and which touched the hearts even of those who could not understand the Rohirric words. Still Frodo could almost feel the turmoil raging inside the young King’s breast, and found himself wishing that he could offer support, if only by being at his side. But all he could do was watch and hope that he would get the chance later. Instead, he joined Pippin and Sam in holding Merry as he cried, having said his final farewells to the man who had been as a second father to him.

Slowly, the mourning crowd dissipated, and all gathered again in the Golden Hall for the great feast in celebration of Théoden’s full life and honourable death, worthy of his sires.

Merry was attending Éomer that night, having renewed his oath as esquire of the Mark, but the other Hobbits sat together towards the end of the head table. Éowyn, clad in a dress as white as snow and crowned with a simple golden circlet, bore a cup to Éomer in his most kingly garb, crown shining on his brow. A minstrel stood up and named all the names of the Lords of the Mark in their order, and when Théoden was named Éomer drained the cup. Then Éowyn signalled the servants to fill the cups of those assembled, and they all rose and drank to their new king with a shout of “Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!” Frodo felt his heart swell.

As the feast drew to an end, Éomer rose and announced the trothplighting of Éowyn and Faramir, and the two stood hand in hand before the assembled Rohirrim and guests, beaming with happiness as everyone drank to their future. Frodo could see how happy Éomer was for his sister, but he could also capture the note of sadness in his eyes.

Aragorn, too, gave his blessing to the couple’s union, and at last the guests started to make their way to their respective lodgings. Pippin made a beeline for Merry as soon as Éomer dismissed him with a smile and a hand on his shoulder, to ensure he’d receive his share of the meal. Frodo waved Sam away to his bedroll with a smile. Éomer was surrounded by the betrothed couple, Aragorn and Arwen, and several of his councillors and Marshals, so he made his way to the dais past Gandalf who wished him a cheeky “very good night, indeed,” and through the doorway to the royal quarters.

In Éomer’s study, he poured himself a little wine and again sat in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. Frodo was unsure why he felt suddenly nervous. He wanted desperately to be there for Éomer, to give him whatever he needed, but as he examined this unexpected feeling, Frodo realised that for the first time he was questioning whether he could. He shook his head, telling himself firmly to stop being ridiculous. Whatever Éomer asked, Frodo was determined to give it to him if it was possible at all.

Finally he heard familiar footsteps, and soon Éomer entered the room, tore off his crown and tossed it onto the narrow table with the flagon of wine at the same time as he closed the door behind himself. He leaned back against it, head hitting the wood with a dull thud as he closed his eyes and released a deep sigh. For a moment he remained there, just breathing, before he opened his eyes and finally looked at Frodo, who had risen at his lover’s entrance. He could read the weariness in Éomer’s face, could almost see in his eyes how he was overwhelmed by thoughts of losses both past – his father, his mother, Théodred, Théoden, so many friends and comrades in arms – and future – Éowyn leaving for her new life as Faramir’s wife in Ithilien come spring, and in just a few days’ time, Frodo’s own departure for the Shire.

Frodo crossed the distance between them swiftly and drew the tall Man into an embrace, resting his cheek against his ribcage and listening to his raised heartbeat as he just held him, trying to give him strength while deeply aware of his own dread about their impending separation.

Éomer’s breath stuttered, and after a few moments his arms wrapped around Frodo’s shoulders and he curled forward to rest his face against the top of Frodo’s head. Soon he felt wetness trickle down to the roots of his hair. After a short while, Éomer sank slowly down to his knees, clinging to Frodo and head pressed into the crook of his neck. When he finally lifted his head to look at Frodo, there were tears running down Éomer’s cheeks, though he didn’t seem to be aware of them.

“Frodo...” he whispered, hands caressing Frodo’s shoulders and neck.

“Anything. Anything you need,” Frodo replied without hesitation, voice hoarse.

Éomer pulled him into a kiss, rough but brief, then lifted him up and carried him through into his bedchamber. Éomer made quick work of their clothes, then rummaged around the chest by the door and within moments returned with a length of rope in his hands, the flickering light from the wall sconces and candles lit about the room making it look as if his dark eyes were burning with intent.

Frodo shivered; they had used ropes only a few times in Minas Tirith, but Frodo had... enjoyed giving up control this much, thoroughly so. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his arms up above his head to grab a hold of the carved headboard, undulating his body in the wake of a wave of arousal. He tilted his head back, baring his throat to the barely contained beast who was standing in front of him, quickly hardening member twitching at the sight.

Éomer bent over Frodo, one hand covering his wrists and pushing them down into the pillows hard, making Frodo’s back arch up, and looked into his eyes searchingly.

“Anything?” he asked, low voice trembling. The tears had ceased, but clearly his emotions were still threatening to overpower him.

“Anything,” Frodo replied, putting all his conviction into that single word.

Éomer growled, mouth descending on Frodo’s in a harsh kiss that took his breath away and left him gasping for air when it finally ended. Éomer swiftly tied Frodo’s wrists together, then attached the rope to the headboard. He put the loose end into Frodo’s hands, having tied a knot that was secure, yet would allow Frodo to free himself by tugging at that end in case he got overwhelmed, as he had the previous times. Frodo felt a surge of tenderness at the thought that even now, when Éomer was desperately looking to forget himself, he took so much care.

The young King joined him on his bed, and proceeded to kiss, lick, and bite his way down Frodo’s body, leaving fresh marks and renewing old ones in all the places that made Frodo squirm with arousal, covering first his front, then his back, leaving his hard, leaking member untouched. He saved Frodo’s arse for last, covering both rounded cheeks before licking down the crack between them to his puckered hole. Frodo cried out, pushing back into Éomer’s hot, wet mouth, craving more. Éomer took his time, laving him there with licks, sucks, and kisses as if trying to drown himself in Frodo’s musk. Frodo could barely writhe into the mattress to relieve his need for more, with Éomer’s hands holding his hips tightly enough to leave bruises, but he let free rein to the moans, gasps, cries, and half-intelligible words that were drawn from him by his Horselord’s ministrations. Éomer’s strong hands lifted him up by the hips and positioned him on his knees with almost no help from his uncoordinated limbs, then his tongue pushed and breached the ring of muscle, punching a sob from Frodo’s chest. He had to bury his head in the pillows beneath him for fear of sending guards and guests running to Éomer’s door in alarm at the volume of his cries. It was too much and not enough at the same time.

Suddenly the sensations ceased, making Frodo keen at the loss, but to his relief it was only long enough for Éomer to grab the bottle of oil off his nightstand and unstopper it. A slicked finger circled his hole, then penetrated quickly, easily, his muscles loosened from the thorough assault of Éomer’s lips and tongue.

“Yes,” Frodo moaned. It was a relief to be filled, even if it wasn’t enough and his still-untouched member was aching with need.

Éomer’s free hand, which had been resting on his hip, suddenly left and came down on his arse with a smack. Frodo yelped at the stinging sensation, then moaned as it seemed to spread out from its source, adding to his arousal.

Éomer chuckled darkly. They had done this only once before, the night of Aragorn and Arwen’s wedding. No other occasion had brought a similarly suitable mood for such activities while they were still in Minas Tirith, and Frodo had been so vocal the first time that they wouldn’t have dared risk even a gentler spanking on the journey to Edoras. But now they were behind sturdy walls...

Éomer slapped his arse again just when he inserted another finger, and Frodo was barely able to catch his resulting loud yelp in the pillows. His horselord proceeded to take him apart, keeping him on the edge but unable to come, even once three fingers were inside him and stroked that spot that made his hips thrust helplessly into the air. Soon he was begging for Éomer to fill him, to take him hard.

Éomer removed his fingers, leaving the muscles of Frodo’s anus clenching around nothing as he whined at the loss, and quickly maneuvered Frodo onto his back, legs splayed wide and feet on the mattress, then covered him with his own body after a brief application of the remaining oil on his fingers to his engorged flesh. The blunt head of his shaft penetrated the loosened ring of muscles easily, and Frodo moaned and arched into the long, slow thrust that stopped only when Éomer was fully sheathed inside him. His Horselord paused for just a moment, panting, then pushed his arms under Frodo’s back to grip his shoulders from below and, locking eyes with him, started up an unforgiving rhythm that turned every one of Frodo’s exhales into moans and cries. Unbidden, tears started falling from Éomer’s eyes again, covering Frodo’s face and hair, but like before he did not seem to notice them, eyes tracing Frodo’s features over and over as if trying to memorise them. His lips then took the same paths; Frodo’s ears, his forehead, brows, cheekbones, nose, and jaw, moving silently against his skin and hair in between sounds of ecstasy, as if speaking private benedictions or confessions or pleas. Soon even those touches ceased as Éomer’s hips snapped against Frodo’s even faster, harder, and Frodo couldn’t hold back any longer, fingers clenching around the rope binding his wrists as the wave crested over him, and Éomer’s mouth drank his cries right from his mouth until he followed close behind with a almost pained shout, hips grinding into Frodo’s as his body flexed and shuddered above him.

Finally their lips slid off each other and Éomer collapsed half on top of Frodo, chest heaving, but his breathing evened out quickly as exhaustion took him at the end of this long and emotional day.

This was the first time that Éomer had not ensured his lover’s comfort, but Frodo didn’t mind. Instead he felt a sense of accomplishment and pride that he was the one privileged to see the young King of Rohan let go of control so completely. This was followed by a sudden fierce wave of protectiveness surging through him, and he freed his hands from his bonds so he could cradle the sleeping form of his Horselord against his chest, nuzzling into the unruly mane of golden hair.

***

Frodo woke to the feeling of soothing lotion being massaged into his wrists by gentle hands. He smiled as he opened his eyes to watch Éomer tend to him. His wrists were fine, just mildly chafed from the rope they’d used the night before, but it felt good nonetheless to be taken care of.

Éomer looked down at him, warmth and concern in his eyes, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Frodo raised his left hand to brush a strand of unkempt golden mane behind Éomer’s shoulder, then stroked down his temple and cheek and jaw. “Will you be alright?”

Éomer’s brow furrowed slightly as he considered Frodo’s words, clearly aware of the unspoken part: _Will you be alright after I leave, after Éowyn has left to live in Ithilien with Faramir?_ Finally he sighed. “What choice do I have? At least I know that I will see Éowyn again, though it will not be the same as having her here. Still, I would not stand in the way of her happiness.”

Frodo sighed at the question in those hazel eyes. “I... I do not know if I will be able to see you again.” He took a deep breath, then forged ahead, “Arwen has offered me her place on a ship into the West. I may never recover enough to remain here, but in the Undying Lands, I may yet find healing and peace.”

Éomer’s face crumpled and he breathed, “Frodo...”

Frodo shook his head, stopping further words by covering his lover’s mouth with his hand. “Don’t ask me for reassurances that I cannot give. Whatever time I have left here will be better for all that you have given me. But for now, let us enjoy what time _we_ have left together. I would not have our coming parting, nor the uncertainty of my future, ruin these days of happiness.”

Éomer nodded reluctantly. “Of course, _mín Holbytla_. I intend to spend as much time with you as I can without neglecting my new duties. Mayhap I will be able to show you some of the beauty of the Mark. But first... I feel a little peckish.” His eyes twinkled with mischief just before he disappeared under the covers, and Frodo gasped as he felt his lover’s wet, hot mouth envelop his soft shaft, which started filling quickly at the talented ministrations of Éomer’s lips and tongue and carefully applied teeth. _Oh yes,_ he thought, _I hope we will have many more occasions to satisfy our mutual hunger these coming days._

***

Another _Witan_ meeting was scheduled for that day, but unexpectedly, Éomer approached Frodo in the Hall while the remains of breakfast were being cleaned up around the last stragglers, including the Hobbits.

“It seems I’ll get to show you some of the beauty of the Mark earlier than I thought, Frodo. Gandalf and I will be riding out, and we thought that you’d like to come with us.”

Frodo was intrigued, especially since neither of his companions would say anything of their destination, and soon the three of them were riding across the plains in a roughly northeastern direction. It seemed Shadowfax was leading them without any direction from Gandalf, with Firefoot and Strider following along with their charges, which made Frodo all the more curious.

After a couple hours’ ride Shadowfax slowed and stopped, Firefoot and Strider following his lead, and Gandalf suggested they dismount. Immediately Shadowfax stepped forward, scenting the air, and let out a loud whinny, as if calling out to someone. Frodo was bursting with curiosity about what they were doing here, but he had a feeling as if he was about to witness something sacred, so he held his peace and waited silently alongside Gandalf and Éomer. For a while there was no sound but the wind, Shadowfax’s scenting, and the sounds of Firefoot and Strider moving about and occasionally grazing on the grass. Suddenly Shadowfax’s nostrils flared at the same time as his ears twitched, and he let out another whinny. Then Frodo could hear it from beyond the rolling hills in front of them: a sound like distant thunder. _No,_ Frodo realised just before he could see the first elegant heads appear over the ridge of one hill, _the sound of a galloping herd of horses._

He held his breath as they crested the hill like a wave in shades of grey, from silver-white to almost black. A short distance in front of them, the animals came to a stop. They were majestic in their magnificence, though not quite as much as Shadowfax, to whom they seemed to bow their heads as he walked up to them.

“Oh,” Frodo breathed. “The Mearas!”

“Indeed. It is traditional that a new King of the Mark should be acknowledged by the lead stallion and lead mare of the Mearas,” Gandalf explained softly just as three horses approached, a stallion of slightly dappled light silver-grey and a mare of dark grey, with a foal almost dark enough to be black following behind its mother.

The two adults greeted Shadowfax with nickers and whinnies and a stance of deference, and at its dam’s coaxing, the foal came forward to be scented and greeted, too.

Frodo looked at Éomer, who was watching the small group closely. Shadowfax led the others back their way and gave a soft whinny in Éomer’s direction. The young King took a deep breath and stepped forward to bow in front of the lead mare and stallion, nodding at each in turn. “Deorcung, Graégflód, I greet you. Théoden King and his steed Snowmane, your kin, have been killed in battle, and their deeds will be sung for generations to come. I am Éomer King, and I humbly ask for your blessing, my friends.”

Mearas were said to understand human speech, and that seemed to be true of their lead stallion and mare; certainly their eyes seemed to hold a deep intelligence as they eyed Frodo and Gandalf when they bowed to the Mearas upon Éomer introducing them, before concentrating on the young King again. First the mare, Deorcung, walked right up to Éomer to scent him and look at him closely as she walked around him in a circle, her foal following curiously and copying its dam’s actions. Once she stood in front of Éomer again, she studied his face before bending her elegant dark grey neck in seeming approval, and stepped back.

Then Graégflód did the same before presenting his left side to Éomer, in a position that would make it easy to mount him.

Éomer hesitated only a moment before grabbing the stallion’s mane just above his withers and swinging himself up onto his back.

Frodo could not help but hold his breath. He had heard that the Mearas would only carry the King of the Mark and his descendants – Shadowfax’s acceptance of Gandalf notwithstanding – and surely Graégflód would not have invited Éomer to mount him if he didn’t think him worthy of Rohan’s throne, but the gravity and importance of this ritual was clear even to Frodo.

Graégflód shook his flanks briefly, then set off with Éomer on his back, carrying him at a gentle trot towards the herd, whinnying as if introducing the new King of the Riddermark to them, and while they circled them the horses neighed, bowed their heads, and stamped their hooves.

Frodo’s eyes teared up at this beautiful scene. Despite the lack of a saddle or reins, Graégflód and Éomer moved smoothly together, and Éomer seemed touched and humbled by this show of respect from these horses which the Rohirrim so revered. The young King returned their gesture by looking from horse to horse, bowing his head to them in turn.

Once they had circled the whole herd, Graégflód carried Éomer back to where Gandalf and Frodo were waiting with their mounts. Éomer slid off the lead stallion’s back and stood in front of him, clasping his head between his hands and leaning his forehead against Graégflód’s. “Thank you, my friend. I will do my utmost to be worthy of your approval.” He repeated the gesture with Deorcung, who then whinnied for her foal to step forward and looked at Éomer, whose eyes widened as if she had spoken to him. Slowly, so as not to spook the foal, he reached out and held it by the chin, looking at its gangly body from head to hooves, and finally looking it in the eye. “I will name you Daegréd, for it is the dawn of a new day for all who live in Middle-earth.” Daegréd’s dam and sire whinnied their approval, as did the foal when Éomer scratched its forehead with a smile.

Éomer, Gandalf, and Frodo said their goodbyes to Deorcung, Graégflód, and Daegred, as did Shadowfax, and they watched as the three returned to their herd and led them away again in a sea of silver-grey. Then they collected their mounts and made their way back toward Edoras.

Frodo glanced at Éomer. It seemed as if this ritual had settled something inside him – he exuded a calm and confidence that hadn’t been there before. Frodo was happy to see it.

“What do their names mean?” Frodo finally asked.

“Graégflód means Greystream,” said Éomer, “Deorcung means Twilight, and Daegred, Daybreak or Dawn.”

Frodo smiled. The dapples on Graégflód’s coat could indeed be interpreted as the swirls of a flowing stream, and Deorcung’s name also was very suitable to her looks. As for Daegred, the foal’s coat would probably grow lighter by adulthood, but its name was chosen for symbolic reasons, not to describe its colouring or temperament, as seemed the case with most of the Rohirric horses.

“You introduced me as _mín frēond_ ,” Frodo said softly after a while.

“You are my friend,” Éomer said. When Frodo looked across at him, he could see Gandalf, riding on his other side, smiling mischievously, clearly knowing why Frodo had brought it up.

“From what I understand, _frēond_ does not only mean ‘friend’ though, does it? It can also mean... more.”

“So it can,” Éomer admitted, smiling softly at Frodo. “I keep forgetting that _Holbytlan_ take to our language more easily than Gondorians do. It seems I need to warn everyone at court to be more careful what they say around the four of you.” His eyes twinkled and his white teeth flashed as he grinned.

“And even when they do not seem to be in the vicinity, I daresay,” Gandalf added, “for they are light of foot and adept at sneaking into places undetected. Places like secret councils,” he added with a significant look at Frodo.

Frodo giggled at the memory of not only Sam, but also Merry and Pippin having snuck into the Council of Elrond, to the Half-Elf’s great consternation. Éomer laughed heartily when he told him about it. Then he asked what other sneaky mischief the four Hobbits had gotten up to in the Shire, and revealed a few occasions from his own youth when he – often in the company of Éowyn or Éothain, or both – had snuck into places he was not supposed to be, and got a stern talking to from his cousin or uncle on the occasions they got caught, though always tempered with an undercurrent of fond exasperation. Thus their ride back to Edoras passed quickly.

***

It was two days before their departure from Edoras that Sam sent Frodo to fetch Éomer as soon as he was free of the _Witan_ , so he could survey the progress Sam and Ethelfled, one of the war widows of Edoras who only had distant family in the Westfold beside her two young children, had made in Morwen’s garden behind Meduseld.

For a few moments, Éomer just stood there and stared, and Frodo couldn’t blame him, for the garden was positively transformed. All of the rose bushes had been trimmed back, removing most of their bloom, but Sam assured Éomer that they would be carrying all the more flowers soon. The flowers that had been overwhelming others had been managed, weeds removed from between the garden plants, and fresh straw laid down to keep new ones from sprouting. The path meandering around the garden, which had been covered in uneven and scraggly grass, was transformed with new stepping stones, the grass growing around them cut back neatly. There was also a circular area in the centre around which the path flowed, which had been grass but now held a few small shrubs.

“Are those... bilberries?” Éomer asked with barely contained excitement.

Ethelfled smiled. “They are, _mín cyning_. My neighbour Cenric has a number of bushes behind his house, but since his wife died and his children moved away, he hasn’t been able to keep up with the harvest. So he gave us a few for your garden. He said it was only right you should have them, since he remembers repeatedly chasing a certain couple of young siblings out of his gardens when they would keep sneaking in to eat the berries off these bushes.”

“I will not admit to knowing what Cenric was talking about, but I will have to thank him heartily for his very generous gesture when next I see him.” Éomer said, clearly touched and a little embarrassed, while the other three chuckled knowingly.

“You haven’t seen everything yet. Turn around,” Sam said, pointing to the area on the far side of the steps leading up to the top of the stone foundations the Golden Hall was built on.

Éomer and Frodo did as they were told, and Frodo’s eyes widened. At the base of the wall now stood a carved wooden bench with a trellis arching over it, at the base of which grew some honeysuckle that Ethelfled had found growing wild along a fence. Once the honeysuckle covered the whole trellis, anyone sitting there would be mostly secluded from view. It would be quite a romantic spot. _Ideal for a young King courting, or seeking a few minutes’ privacy with his new wife,_ Frodo thought wistfully.

“Never thought Gimli to be a romantic, but it was his idea to add this bench once he saw what we were doin’ here,'' Sam explained. “And Legolas did some Elf magic so the transplanting wouldn’t damage the new plants none.”

Éomer seemed quite stunned, and it took him a while to find words. “I cannot thank you enough, Samwise and Ethelfled,” he finally said. “Never had I expected to see this much improvement within such a short time.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Sam demurred. “All it takes is an idea of where you want to end up and dedication once you get started. Take it one step after another, and you’ll get there eventually. Especially when you have good help,” he added with a warm smile at Ethelfled, who blushed at the praise.

“Yes, I guess that is true. I shall have to remember that for the months to come,” Éomer said musingly, sweeping his eyes over the renewed garden again with a soft smile.

***

“Do you like your new garden?” Frodo asked him that night when they sat on the new bench after supper, Frodo snuggled up against Éomer’s side, both looking out over the garden to the White Mountains and the stars glittering in the clear sky above.

Éomer scoffed. “You know I love it. Samwise and Ethelfled have worked a miracle.”

Frodo hummed in agreement. “And I am sure that you will soon work a similar miracle for your country.”

Éomer gave him a skeptical look. “I will count myself lucky if we will survive the coming winter without people starving. I am utterly unprepared for this role, and I know it.”

“You may not have been trained to be King, but you have experience administrating the East-mark and leading your _Éored_. And what is more, you have friends here and among all the free peoples of Middle-earth, who are willing to help. You are learning from them, and your councillors, every day.”

“And still I don’t know enough.”

“Maybe not. Maybe no King ever does. But the fact that you realise that is key. And what is even more crucial, you acknowledge others’ expertise and experience, and you trust them to make up for your lack of knowledge. Look at this garden. You trusted Sam and Ethelfled to improve it, even though it lay so close to your heart.”

Éomer gave him a puzzled look. “How do you know that?”

Frodo smiled gently. “The look on your face when you talked about it gave you away. At least to someone who knows you well.”

Éomer briefly tightened his embrace, then swept his eyes over the garden again with a faraway look. “I used to help _módor_ when she worked here,” he admitted in a soft voice. “I quite enjoyed digging around in the dirt, and loved to listen to her talk about the plants and what they needed. Éowyn rarely had the patience, so Théodred would often mind her, or she’d be running around with the other kids in town. We had a garden in Aldburg, of course, but _módor_ did not have much time to spend in it due to her responsibilities. It was rare that I got her to myself for any length of time, so I treasured these moments.” He was silent for a while, then sighed. “Once Éowyn and I lived here, I’d sometimes sneak out to tend the plants as best as I could, but once I started my training, I was able to do that less and less, being out on patrols and errands a lot. Then I was named Third Marshal and spent much of my time in Aldburg. And these last few years... well, a flower garden seemed too trivial a concern, compared to everything else.”

Frodo gently squeezed Éomer’s thigh, then sat back and turned so he could look him in the eye. “And so you let Sam and Ethelfled restore this garden for you, because you knew it was beyond your skills to do it. Like some of the skills needed to rule a country may yet be beyond you, but you know others who can make up for it. You know when to ask for help, when to delegate, and you will keep learning from your friends and councillors and Marshals, and anyone else with knowledge to impart, along the way. Your people know you and trust you, and they know that you will do your utmost to help them, because they know and love _you_ , Éomer, son of Éomund.

Éomer looked down at him, eyes glittering with moisture in the starlight. “Frodo...” he whispered on a breath, before pulling him closer and covering his lips with his own, and Frodo could feel all the love and gratitude that his Horselord was unable to voice in that kiss.

***

The next day – the final day before most of Rohan’s guests would depart Edoras to return to their respective homes – the King of Rohan took a few hours off to take Frodo into the valley of Harrowdale, to a small lake secreted away in the forest growing on the lower northern flank of the valley. It was one of his favourite spots, he said, where he sometimes retreated when he needed peace and quiet to think, or just to get away from the bustle of life in Edoras and later his growing responsibilities.

“I doubt I will be able to come here often anymore, at least not unaccompanied,” Éomer mused as they sat next to each other on a fallen log. He threw a sour look down the narrow path to where Éothain and another Rider stood guard after having ascertained that the area was safe. Éothain took his duties as Captain of Éomer’s guard very seriously, occasionally too much so, in Éomer’s opinion.

“I am sure eventually Éothain will give you a longer leash,” Frodo said, grinning unapologetically when Éomer shot him a dark look. “Truthfully though, I am glad to know you will be so well guarded. It will keep me from worrying overmuch,” he added softly.

Éomer looked at him with a sad smile. Tomorrow, Aragorn and his knights would accompany the Fellowship and the people of Lórien and Rivendell to Isengard, and upon his return, Arwen, Faramir, and Imrahil would return to Minas Tirith with him. The previous night, Éomer had confided in Frodo that while he was looking forward to having the large host leave, for Meduseld would be more peaceful again, he was also dreading it, for he would miss all his newfound friends and their counsel. He had not mentioned his feelings regarding Frodo’s departure, for they were becoming plain every minute they drew closer to that moment.

But now he merely cupped Frodo’s cheek with his hand for a brief moment before launching into the story of how he had discovered this lake not long after Théoden had brought him and Éowyn to live in Edoras.

For a while they talked of things that had nothing to do with tomorrow’s parting, but most of the time they spent sitting there quietly, enjoying each other’s company and the peace of this place, and exchanging occasional kisses in the dappled sunlight. But finally Éothain discreetly reminded them that it was time for Éomer King to return to his duties.

With a sigh, Éomer stood and helped Frodo up, and after a last look around they collected their horses and returned to Edoras.

***

That night, Éomer hosted a farewell feast for his departing guests. Thankfully, the speeches were kept less elaborate than was customary in Minas Tirith, and as seemed customary in Rohan, the guests mingled freely as soon as the meal was over. With the departure scheduled for early morning, no one lingered for too long. Even so, Éowyn ushered Éomer towards the royal chambers as soon as she saw Frodo head that way, saying she would be able to get the last stragglers out more easily without his presence keeping them, while winking at Frodo from behind her brother’s shoulder. Éomer didn’t put up more than a token protest and briefly squeezed her arm in thanks before joining Frodo.

***

They silently went to Éomer’s bedroom where they stood in front of each other for a moment, letting their eyes travel the other’s body. Then Éomer went to his knees in front of Frodo and unhurriedly unbuttoned Frodo’s waistcoat, folded it, and put it on top of Frodo’s packed bag. Next he pulled Frodo’s shirt out of his trousers and did the same, and again with Frodo’s trousers and his smallclothes. When all his clothes were neatly put away, Éomer sank back onto his heels and just looked at Frodo’s naked form, head to toes, as if memorising him, hands resting on top of his own thighs. It was at the same time utterly innocent and unbearably erotic; Frodo’s member swelled without the slightest touch. When Éomer’s eyes, now dark with want, reached his again, Frodo stepped forward to undress Éomer in turn. By the time they were both naked, their breathing had deepened and synchronised. But for now they ignored their arousal, instead letting their lips meet to exchange deep, sensual kisses while their hands caressed cheeks, jaws, necks, throats, shoulders, ran through hair again and again, feeding the fire within them until they found their fronts pressed together, hands roaming each other’s backs and arses, panting for lack of air from their nigh ceaseless kissing. Only then did Éomer lift Frodo up and laid him down on his bed, where he sank down on top of him. They took their time, exploring each other’s bodies with hands and mouths as if for the first time. But unlike their actual first time, they were not silent.

“I wanted you the moment I laid eyes on you,” Frodo gasped. “I had never felt anything like it before. And after so long with that blasted Ring twisting everything to its purpose, and then the numbness caused by its loss... It felt so good to feel something true. Something good.”

Éomer groaned. “I had to restrain myself so I wouldn’t take you right there, in front of my sister and everyone else. I was half out of my mind with lust when I came to your window that night, desperately hoping that I had not imagined the spark of want in your eyes as they had met mine. And then I saw you standing in the moonlight, even more _elf-sciéne_ than in daylight, your nightshift barely concealing your naked form...” Éomer’s hand closed around Frodo’s shaft, and his hips rolled up for more.

“Your touch was what made me truly feel my body was mine again,” he confessed between panted breaths and moans. “I had felt disconnected from it for so long, like it was an ill-fitting shell I was carrying around. Your every touch and caress anchor me more firmly within it.”

Éomer’s lips covered his, then moved to his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, punctuating his words. “The moment our lips met that first time, all the thoughts and doubts that had been swirling inside my head since Théoden’s death were silenced. It happens every time we kiss. No one has ever brought such peace to me before.”

Frodo moaned, hands digging into the firm flesh over Éomer’s shoulder blades, hoping he would leave marks that his lover could feel for days to come.

His Horselord shivered. Callused fingers covered in oil breached Frodo’s body and he keened with pleasure. For a while there were no words as Éomer prepared him, slowly, thoroughly, drawing it out until Frodo was desperate for more.

“Béma help me, you tear down my reason,” Éomer said in a husky voice between trailing kisses down Frodo’s front, his fingers still inside that velvety sheath. “Especially when I can smell you... how ready you are for me.” He skirted around Frodo’s erect shaft that lay on his belly, inhaling deeply. “Always so eager for me to possess you, _mín Holbytla_.”

“Yes. _Yes!_ I am yours to possess, please take me, now!” Frodo did not care if he was begging, as long as his need was fulfilled.

Éomer hovered over him, gazing deep into his eyes as his fingers retreated to take hold of his own shaft. “Sometimes I felt so lost, but you helped me become somebody else... somebody better... You made me...”

“...perfect,” Frodo breathed out on an almost-sob when Éomer’s member finally breached him, and they groaned in unison as he slid deep, until he was completely sheathed. For a few moments they lay there panting, foreheads pressed together, and then Éomer started moving, slowly, gently, in smooth long glides out and in again, and again, and again. He kept his pace steady, allowing them to savour each moment, each movement as they arched against each other within their embrace, lips meeting and parting, sounds of passion replacing words. Frodo wished that they could stay in this moment forever, on this rising tide of pleasure, without ever reaching its cusp. But despite Éomer’s efforts to make it last, eventually the tide bore them away, and their cries rose in pitch and volume along with it, until Frodo was carried over in a series of inexorable, slowly diminishing waves of ecstasy, taking Éomer with him.

They lay in each other’s arms panting, clinging, and at least one of them was crying silently; Frodo did not know who, and he didn’t care. He held on tight to Éomer, as tightly as he was held in return, and breathed in that unique scent of his: leather, steel, horse, sweat, the mingled musk of their sex.

 _Valar let me remember this forever,_ he begged in his mind.

They could not bring themselves to let go, and finally they fell into sleep still in each other’s arms, and did not part until they woke.

***

They said goodbye privately that morning, before the bustle of preparation for the guests’ departure.

Éomer looked at him gravely. “Is there truly no way...”

Frodo covered his lover’s lips with two of his fingers, shaking his head. “Please don’t make this even more difficult,” he whispered with a sad smile.

Éomer closed his eyes, lips flattening into a thin line as Frodo’s fingers retreated, then looked at Frodo again. “Forgive me. I know that you have to go. But if you... if there ever... if you don’t –” He cut himself off with a frustrated growl, then pressed Frodo’s maimed hand over his heart and looked him straight in the eyes. “Know that you will always be welcome in the Riddermark, _mín Holbytla_. Even should I long be married and have children or even grandchildren, though right now the thought seems utterly foreign to me.”

Unbidden, the image of Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil, came to Frodo’s mind. _Maybe...?_ Frodo did not mention her to Éomer, but said simply, “You’ll find someone to make you happy, I am sure of it.” In his own mind he amended, _I will make sure of it._

For several long moments they just looked at each other.

Frodo had told himself that it was not love. Yet looking at Éomer – his lover, his Horselord, the King of Rohan who had laid claim to every part of his body – now that they were about to part, most likely forever, Frodo allowed himself to fully acknowledge what he had secretly known since the beginning of their journey to Edoras, if not longer: That even though he had known from the start that their acquaintance was destined to end, his heart had not listened to what his head had dictated. Somewhere along the way, maybe even the first time he’d laid eyes on his Horselord in the gardens at the Houses of Healing, it had opened itself to this magnificent specimen of a Man – fierce and tender, controlling yet full of care, untamed beast and gentle nobleman in one – and a part of him would always remain with him as long as they both lived, and possibly beyond. He could see in Éomer’s eyes that he felt the same, and as they came together in a long, deep kiss for the very last time, their lips and tongues said everything that their words could not.

***

Arwen remained in the chamber she shared with Aragorn when it came time for the company to depart. She and Elrond had said their last goodbyes up in the hills, and only came back after a long time. No doubt this was a bitter parting between father and daughter, for they would never see each other again. Elrond’s sons stayed close to their father, though he did not outwardly show how much pain it was causing him to leave his beloved daughter behind.

Éowyn and Éomer made their way among the line of travellers, saying their goodbyes. Finally, only Merry and Frodo were left. “Farewell now, Meriadoc of the Shire and Holdwine of the Mark.” Éowyn said, “Ride to good fortune, and ride back soon to our welcome!”

Éomer smiled at Merry ruefully. “Kings of old would have laden you with gifts that a wain could not bear for your deeds upon the fields of _Mundburg_ ; and yet you refuse to take anything but the arms that were given to you. This pains me, for indeed I have no gift that is worthy. But my sister begs you to receive this small thing, as a memorial of Dernhelm and of the horns of the Mark at the coming of the morning.”

Éowyn handed Merry an ancient horn, small but intricately decorated. It was made of silver, engraved with horsemen riding in a line that wound about it from the tip to the mouth, as well as runes, and was accompanied by a green baldric.

“This is an heirloom of our house,” explained Éowyn. “It was made by the Dwarves, and came from the hoard of Scatha the Worm. Eorl the Young brought it from the North. He that blows it at need shall set fear in the hearts of his enemies and joy in the hearts of his friends, and they shall hear him and come to him.”

Merry took the horn, unable to refuse it, and he kissed Éowyn’s hand, and they embraced him.[1]

Frodo watched all this with love, pride, and sympathetic pain warring inside his heart, but it quickly was overwhelmed by his own pain as Éomer and Éowyn turned to him at last. After their earlier private goodbye, truly there was nothing left unsaid between Éomer and Frodo. Yet after the young King went down on his knee and looked at him, valiantly trying to conceal the emotional toll of this parting, he struggled for words for a few moments, before finally saying, “Be well, _mín Holbytla_ ,” voice hoarse.

Frodo nodded, giving him a tiny smile, voice similarly affected as he replied, “And you, _mín cyning_.”

With what sounded suspiciously like a suppressed sob, Éomer pulled Frodo into his arms, drawing him in close and resting his head in the crook of Frodo’s neck, as he did the same. His Horselord’s arms almost kept him from breathing, they held him so tightly, but Frodo just leaned into him and revelled in his warmth and smell for one last time. All too soon, Éomer let go of him with a deep breath and stood back, bowing his head.

Éowyn stepped forward next, and bent down to embrace Frodo. “Don’t worry. I will look after him,” she whispered, squeezing him gently.

He swallowed and whispered back, “Thank you, My Lady,” squeezing her in kind before they let go.

Serendipitously, everyone in their company seemed to be deeply occupied in conversation or a last check on their horses and baggage during Frodo and Éomer’s brief emotional display. But now, at Aragorn’s signal, everyone mounted their horses and ponies, Frodo aided by Éomer King himself, and the departing drank from stirrup-cups, as was tradition in Rohan. After a final call of farewells, Aragorn gave the signal to ride off. Frodo kept his eyes straight ahead, ignoring any sympathetic glances thrown his way by his companions, and only after they had left the gates and were a ways along the open road did he finally allow himself to look back, eyes immediately drawn to the lone figure of Éomer, King of Rohan, standing above the gate of Edoras, golden hair blowing in the wind.

[1] Much of this scene has been quoted or paraphrased from p 256 of The Return of the King, Many Partings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here the main story ends. Chapter 3 is an epilogue from Éomer's point of view, set a little more than 2 years after their parting.
> 
> Rohirric translations:  
>  _eald ealdfaeder_ \- great-grandfather  
>  _Éored_ \- a company of horsemen of the Rohirrim  
>  _wyrm_ \- serpent, snake, dragon  
>  _mín leóna_ \- my lion  
>  _Witan_ \- the council of the King's leading advisors and nobles  
>  _frēond_ \- friend, loved one, lover  
>  _mín cyning_ \- my king  
>  _módor_ \- mother  
>  _elf-sciéne_ \- beautiful, like an elf or nymph, of elfin beauty  
>  _Mundburg_ \- Minas Tirith


	3. Epilogue: Forever Your Holbytla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éomer had sent one letter to Frodo, after his return from Éowyn and Faramir’s wedding followed by a brief visit to Dol Amroth for trade negotiations, early in the first Spring after their parting, but had never received a reply. But now, it seemed, his wait was finally over. Dare he hope that it was good news, or was this sudden contact after so long boding ill?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long - some (mostly good) Real Life changes soaked up a significant chunk of my time and energy this past month, so it took me a while to get into the right headspace to implement my beta's notes. However, it was worth it - the chapter is much improved and almost twice as long as it was originally, thanks to [Ladysunrope](https://ladysunrope.livejournal.com/).

It was on what promised to be a beautiful autumn day that Éomer found an unexpected letter in his bundle of correspondence. As he often did, Meriadoc Brandybuck had sent a lengthy missive, based on the thickness of the letter – Master Holdwine was quite enthusiastic in keeping his liege lord up to date on goings-on in his life and that of the other _Holbytlan_ he’d travelled with – but it was another letter from the Shire that caught his attention. For a moment, all Éomer could do was stare, heartbeat racing, at the elegant handwriting announcing its author. He had sent one letter to Frodo, after his return from Éowyn and Faramir’s wedding followed by a brief visit to Dol Amroth for trade negotiations, early in the first Spring after their parting, but had never received a reply. In one of his next letters, Merry had hinted at Frodo having been ill around that time, which might have explained a delay. But surely if Frodo had wanted to keep in contact with Éomer, he would have written once he was recovered, even if it was just to let him know he had received the letter? (Which he had, Merry had assured him after he had expressed his hope that it hadn’t been lost.)

The longer the silence held, the more unsure Éomer had felt about the reason behind it. Could it be that Frodo wanted nothing to do with him anymore, not even in correspondence? Or would it be too painful for his _Holbytla_ to hear of Éomer’s life apart from him? He’d often contemplated writing to him again, but in the end a mixture of insecurity and pride – he did not want to seem like a young, inexperienced maiden desperately clinging to the impossible hope of the object of her infatuation returning her affection – had kept him from seeking contact again. Instead, he’d found himself forced to glean small amounts of information about Frodo’s life and wellbeing from the letters of Meriadoc, and occasionally Peregrin and Samwise. But now, it seemed, his wait was finally over. Dare he hope that it was good news, or was this sudden contact after so long boding ill?

There was only one way to find out. Taking a deep breath, Éomer broke the seal and unfolded several pages, covered in neat handwriting.

***

_September 21, S.R. 1421 (T.A. 3021)_

_My dearest Éomer,_

_I must, first of all, apologise for never answering your letter. It was a most welcome surprise, for I know that though as Théoden King’s kin you were taught reading and writing, it is not something you do often. It was a balm to my weary soul, for at the time I received it, I was still recovering from a bout of illness brought about by the anniversary of Shelob’s poisoning. Yet I felt that I should not reply, for I had learned from Aragorn that you had grown closer to Princess Lothíriel during your renewed acquaintance, and I felt it unfair to sway your attention away from her. (Why would Aragorn tell me this news? Forgive me if you will, but I had asked him, on our way from Edoras to Isengard, if he could make discreet arrangements for you to spend time with Lothíriel. Seeing the two of you interact in Minas Tirith, I felt you would make a good match if only you could meet her without distraction. I was strengthened in my conviction and gladdened when I heard from Aragorn, and more so once I learned of your betrothal later that year.) I heard that you married her some months ago, so let me express my warmest wishes of goodwill. I truly am happy for you and Princess – forgive me, Queen – Lothíriel, no matter the selfish part of me that wishes it could be me by your side and sharing your life._

_But let me finally come to the reason for this no doubt unexpected letter: I wished very much that after your wedding, I could have seen you again, my Horselord, but the state of my health has precluded any lengthy travel. Illness overcomes me not only on the anniversary of Shelob’s poisoning, but also of my wounding by the Witch King, and each time it takes me long to regain what little strength I still have. It has become clear to me that I will never recover, and so I have accepted Arwen’s offer of taking her place on a boat into the West. By the time this message reaches you I will be gone, accompanied by my dear uncle Bilbo. Forgive me for not telling you earlier, but I know that you would have tried to persuade me to stay. I would not have been able to go through with it had I seen you again, yet I could not have had the place in your life that I foolishly still long to have. Please do not blame Merry for keeping this secret (I know that he has been keeping you informed, and am glad of it_ _),_ _for I have not yet told him, nor Pippin_ _nor_ _Sam. They will not find out until we reach the Grey Havens, from where the boat will depart. I shall leave this letter for Merry to send on to you, and no doubt he will add his own._

_There are too many things that I still wish to tell you, but my time is running out, for soon we will have to head out to meet Gandalf and Bilbo, and travel to the Grey Havens together. What I want you to know the most is how precious the time we spent together is to me, and will always be. You healed me in ways that all the cures and medicines of Healer-Kings and Wizards and Elves in this world could not. Please do not grieve for me, but know that I will be content in the Undying Lands, and that I wish you to live a long and happy life with your lovely wife, and may you both be blessed with as many children as you wish to have._

_No matter how much beauty and serenity and peace I will find in the Undying Lands, I will never forget you and how much you have given to me, and I shall keep loving you, my Horselord, my King, to the ends of Middle-earth and beyond._

_Forever Your Holbytla,_

_Frodo_

***

The letter fell from Éomer’s insensate fingers, and he sat down heavily in his chair, staring out at nothing as his mind tried to make sense of what he had just read.

It was thus that his wife found him some time later, startling him with her sudden cry of concern. “Éomer? What is wrong? Did something happen to Éowyn?” She hurried over to him, putting her arm around his shoulders with worry in her eyes. He could not blame her, for he had never before been in such a state.

For long moments he stared at her, unable to form words, before reaching with a shaking hand for Frodo’s letter and handing it to her. She took it with a look of concern, then bent down her head to read it while Éomer watched her, wishing that she would ask him what the fuss was about as the letter was entirely innocuous, and he had imagined the devastating news it held.

***

_Before he asked her father, Prince Imrahil, for permission to marry her, Éomer sat with Lothíriel on the carved bench Gimli had made for Morwen’s garden behind Meduseld, its honeysuckle-covered trellised arch providing the necessary privacy, and told her about Frodo. He did not want any secrets between them, and he also meant to assure her that while a part of him would always love Frodo, that did not diminish his love for her in any way._ _Éomer_ _had come to admire and care for Lothíriel a great deal during Éowyn and Faramir’s wedding and his subsequent visit to Dol Amroth, when they had spent a significant amount of time together due to the Princess overseeing the fiefdom’s trade. Those feelings had deepened through regular correspondence, and had bloomed into deep affection during the current visit of Imrahil’s family in Rohan – the first one for his sons as well as Lothíriel. So Éomer was relieved that when he finished explaining himself, Lothíriel didn’t slap or shout at him, nor did she run off crying. To his pleasant surprise, she did not even seem shocked when he hinted at the physical aspect of his and Frodo’s relationship. From what he had heard during his stay in Minas Tirith, daughters of noble families in Gondor grew up rather sheltered from anything having to do with sensuality. Maybe Dol Amroth was simply more relaxed in this aspect as well as in others, he thought. Only after their wedding would Lothíriel tell him of a maternal uncle in Pelargir who had been living with a male partner for as long as she could remember, and who shared affectionate touches with each other quite openly when among family and friends, which explained much about her calm reaction to his revelation._

_Once Lothíriel had given some thought to what he’d told her, she asked if he would likely see Frodo again. Éomer frowned, before he said slowly, “I would never betray my vows to you, Lothíriel, nor would Frodo ever ask me to. But... if an opportunity should present itself, I would dearly want to see him again. Though I’m afraid it seems unlikely; Frodo was quite certain upon his departure from Edoras that we would never meet again. He said Queen Arwen had offered him her place on a boat into the West, should he not be able to recover from his wounds, and he might yet accept it.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but was sure that the pain of that thought had bled through nonetheless._

_Lothíriel smiled at him with compassion, and took his hand between hers. “I cannot begrudge you something that brought you and Frodo joy and healing. This also explains why you were so unreceptive to my charms back then. Who could compete with the loveliness of the Ring-bearer?” she added, her smile turning mischievous for a moment, making him blush, but then she became serious again, and regarded him earnestly. “Thank you for telling me, my Lord Éomer. You confirmed my opinion of you as an honest, forthright man, and I would be honoured and very happy to become your wife.”_

***

Now Éomer watched as Lothíriel’s brows rose in surprise, creased with sorrow, and then her hand flew up to cover her gasp as she read the letter. They may have been married for less than a year, but he was well familiar with her expressions, and could tell which part of Frodo’s letter she was reading by her reactions. Once she was done, she set down the letter and looked at him gravely. “Oh, Éomer...” She pulled him, still sitting, into a warm embrace against her bosom, and something inside him shattered at this confirmation that he now lived in a world that did not hold Frodo anymore. All Éomer could do was cling to his beloved wife as he wept, and she crooned to him and stroked his hair, her cheek resting on the top of his head.

When his tears finally slowed down, anger took him, and Lothíriel watched quietly as he paced around his study and ranted against the unfairness of it all: that the Ringbearer, who had suffered so much in his mission to save all of Middle-earth, and survived against all odds, should not in turn be granted happiness and peace to live a long, happy life in his home; that Wizards, Elves, and Healer-Kings were good for naught if they could not help the one creature in this world that deserved it most; that Frodo, more than anyone in Middle-earth, deserved to find someone to take care of him, not just the way Sam did – devoted though he was, he had his own family – but someone who loved him with all their heart. When finally he ran out of words and anger, and slumped exhausted against the table, head hanging and barely able to hold himself up by his fists on its surface, Lothíriel wrapped her arms around him from behind.

Gently, she said, “I understand your pain, and I would not ask you to bury it, my beloved husband. I, too, wish that we could have seen him one last time. But based on his letter and what you told me, much of what happiness Frodo did find after the Quest was in your presence. It obviously meant a lot to him. _You_ meant a lot to him, and still do. He seems to have made peace with his fate, so maybe you should strive to do the same, like he asked you to.”

Éomer took a deep breath, wiped furiously at his face, and sniffled. “I thought I had accepted that Frodo would never be whole again, but it seems not.” He straightened on another deep inhale, then turned within her embrace to look down at his wife, caressing her cheeks with his hands. “I will do my best to honour Frodo’s wishes, but I cannot promise that the grief and anger will not overtake me at times.”

Lothíriel smiled lovingly. “I would not expect anything else. Grief lingers and overcomes you at the most inopportune times, but you know that as well as I do.”

He smiled sadly as he looked deeply into her grey eyes. “What would I do without you?”

Her smile turned into a grin. “Oh, probably get drunk and find something to destroy or someone to fight – or both?”

He scoffed quietly. “You know me too well.” Éomer bent down to kiss her softly, deeply, putting all his love and gratitude into the gesture.

Once they parted, Lothíriel caressed his face with her hand, studying him closely. “Do you wish my company, or is solitude what you need?”

Éomer sighed. “I think I shall take Firefoot out for a ride. Do not worry. I will be sure to return before dark.”

Lothíriel nodded. “I will talk to Éoric and see to it that all your appointments are moved to tomorrow,” she said, and with a squeeze of his hand and a reassuring smile, she left.

Éomer quickly hurried into their bedroom to remove the traces of his grief from his face with handfuls of cold water, and put on a warm overcoat to stave off the autumn winds. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked up Frodo and Merry’s letters and slipped them under his belt as he headed out to the stables, mind full of bittersweet memories of a small and delicate, yet surprisingly strong and continuously surprising fey creature with skin like porcelain, chestnut curls, and eyes the blue of Rohan’s winter sky on a clear, sunny day.

***

At first Éomer just rode, giving Firefoot free rein as they shot across the plain in a gallop. Éothain had intercepted him in the stables, insisting that Éomer take him along, but broke off abruptly when he got a better look at his king's face. In the end his old friend had muttered that Éomer better be back by dark because if anything happened to him, the queen might not let Éothain escape with his life, and upon Éomer's curt nod had left him with a squeeze of his shoulder.

He'd not had any plans for where he was headed, the soldier inside him scanning his surroundings for potential threats while his mind was still struggling with the news of Frodo's departure for the Undying Lands. However, he was not surprised when he ended up in the valley of Harrowdale, heading towards the hidden lake on its north flank, where he'd taken Frodo the day before his departure from Edoras. It had been his place of solace and reflection since he and Éowyn had come to live with uncle Théoden after their parents' death, and the few hours he and Frodo had shared here were among his most treasured memories of their time together.

Letting Firefoot free to roam, Éomer strode back and forth on the clearing, too agitated to be still, trying to reconcile himself to the fact that Frodo was gone, truly gone, never to return – and that he had not given Éomer a chance to say goodbye.

"Why did you – no, I know why, but I am not sure if being left behind without saying goodbye really is less cruel than having to watch you leave forever," he muttered to the image of Frodo inside his head that always accompanied him, currently looking at him sadly, compassionately. "At least I would have had one last chance to try..."

 _To try and make me stay? And then what?_ He heard Frodo's voice say resignedly, and he could not disagree.

_I am sorry, I know. I know there is nothing here for you, as much as I wish it was different. I am married, and as understanding as Lothíriel is of my bond with you, surely she would never have agreed to have you live here. I could never have resisted the temptation of your constant presence, no matter how hard I would have tried to stay true to my wife. And even if I had somehow managed, it would have meant torture for you to watch me and Lothíriel together. None of us would have been happy. And still I wish..._

He stopped his pacing, wondering for a moment if Frodo would have stayed if Éomer had admitted his feelings for him just one of the many times that the words had crowded the back of his throat. But he had been painfully aware that what they had could exist only in that liminal space between the end of the War of the Ring, and Éomer's return to Rohan. He was no longer Éomer, Third Marshall of the Riddermark, free to choose whom to love; he was Éomer King of Rohan now, and Rohan needed a queen and an heir, which Éomer could not give to his people with Frodo by his side. His awareness of that burden on his shoulders and his sense of responsibility for his people, the people he had fought so hard for, the people for whom Théoden and Théodred and so many other Rohirrim had given their lives, had been the only reason why he'd swallowed down those three words again and again.

And the fact that Frodo had clearly also been aware of this, and had conspired with Aragorn to ensure that Éomer would find a queen that was not only eminently suitable to the task, but that Éomer could love... It was just one more selfless sacrifice for the greater good of Middle-earth, while Frodo's reward was nothing but suffering and pain and loss.

Éomer could feel the muscles in his body clench tight like a fist, felt the red haze close in on him as his blood boiled with rage at the unfairness and cruelty of Frodo's fate. He wanted to lash out, to smash and hurt and destroy –

The nervous whinny and prancing of Firefoot pulled him back from the brink of the Rage before it could take him over. He came back to himself, chest heaving with rapid breaths and a hammering heart, and blinked. It had been a long time since the Rage, nigh the stuff of legend among his Riders, had overcome him. He swallowed and, after a few deep breaths, reached out a hand to Firefoot, who came closer immediately.

"I am sorry, my old friend. I know you don't like to see me like this," he murmured hoarsely, leaning into Firefoot's neck while he gentled him with shaking hands. He just stood there, eyes closed, soaking in the familiar smell and warmth, the feeling of his companion's coat against Éomer's hands and face, letting the sensations calm and centre him, until his heart had quieted and his mind was blank.

With a last pat against Firefoot's elegant neck, Éomer stepped back resolutely and went to sit down on the log near the lake which he'd shared with Frodo on their visit here – taking out Frodo's and Merry's letters. After a brief moment of hesitation, he decided to read Merry's missive later, when he wasn't still reeling from the news of Frodo's leaving and could actually fathom writing a reply. Instead, he unfolded Frodo's letter and steeled himself to read it again.

Even knowing its contents, Éomer was unable to hold back the tears, the pain, the grief, and the anger. Oh yes, he was still angry – at the world, at Frodo, at himself – and he knew that he would be for a long time, but he also knew that a good part of it was rooted in a deep feeling of helplessness and uselessness. No matter what he did, no matter how many times Frodo hat told him that being with Éomer soothed him like nothing else could – had said so again in this very letter – in the end it still had not been enough to truly heal his beloved _Holbytla_.

_What I want you to know the most is how precious the time we spent together is to me, and will always be._

"And to me, _mín Holbytla_ ," Éomer whispered hoarsely, remembering the times he had been able to make Frodo laugh, to forget his ailments in body and mind. The times Frodo had managed to lighten the burden of Éomer's unasked-for kingly duties, merely by his presence. The times they had brought each other pleasure so intense, Éomer had sometimes thought he might die of it. The times when they had just _been_ , content in each other's silent company. He had always felt Frodo's absence keenly from the moment he had ridden off, but never more acutely than now – now that he knew for certain that his hopes of seeing him again were gone.

_I shall keep loving you, my Horselord, my King, to the ends of Middle-earth and beyond._

_Forever Your Holbytla,_

_Frodo_

Éomer swallowed hard. Such love, such deep, selfless love – for Frodo to not only give up his own happiness for the sake of Éomer's duty to Rohan and the well-being of his people, but to then go ahead and ensure that Éomer would find love and happiness again, without Frodo... How could one person hold such boundless love? And how could he, Éomer, possibly deserve to receive such a boon? But he had it, unconditionally, and knew without a doubt that he always would, as long as at least one of them lived to remember, and maybe even beyond death, for surely a love like this could not be limited by the boundaries between realms of existence.

Éomer closed his eyes and hung his head, trying to wrestle his feelings back under control. _My love may not be as boundless as yours, Frodo, but you taught me to love more freely than I ever have before, and I shall always be grateful to you for that gift._

He had no choice but to accept this new reality: Frodo was gone, beyond Éomer's reach. All he could do now was honour Frodo's parting wish and strive to live a long and happy life with Lothíriel, and ensure that his family and his people prospered. He would grieve, and while it would never disappear, over time his grief would lessen in intensity. But his love for Frodo would remain strong, in no way diminished by his newfound love for Lothíriel. They would coexist inside his heart, neither negating the other, until the day he died. He would go on and channel those loves into living well, for his people, for Éowyn, for Lothíriel, for himself, and for Frodo.

Taking a deep breath, Éomer straightened and carefully refolded and put away Frodo's letter, before kneeling down at the edge of the lake and washing his face with a few handfuls of the cold, clear water. He called to Firefoot, who had been grazing a short distance away, and mounted him. It was time to return home, to his wife, and the life they had built in Meduseld.

Soon Firefoot was trotting along the mouth of the valley of Harrowdale, when suddenly a warm breeze came from the west. Éomer had to close his eyes for a moment as it caressed his face, overwhelmed by memories of a delicate four-fingered hand doing the same. Just as Éomer turned Firefoot to face the sun disappearing behind the White Mountains, the wind turned, too. Impulsively, he lifted his hand and whispered, "I will be your Horselord, your King, and love you to the ends of Middle-earth and beyond, _mín leófa Holbytla_!" Éomer wiped the wetness from his face, then steered Firefoot towards Edoras at a gallop, letting the wind carry his words, his love and his grief where it may.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rohirric translations:  
>  _mín leófa Holbytla_ \- my beloved Hobbit
> 
> This is the final chapter of the story. "Chapter 4" contains the NSFW (Not Safe For Work) lyrics for "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails (with lines assigned to Frodo and Éomer) and a link to the equally NSFW official video on Youtube.


	4. "Closer" lyrics and link to Youtube video

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to post the song that inspired this story, so here are the lyrics to Nine Inch Nail's "Closer", plus a link to the music video on Youtube. Please note that both lyrics and video are NSFW (NOT SAFE FOR WORK)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've formatted the lines to assign them to Frodo (blue) and Éomer (red). Black applies to both. If you've chosen to "Hide Creator's Style", you'll see it all in black, but you should be able to assign the various lines yourself easily enough, based on their dynamics in this story.

# Closer (Director’s Cut)

### by Nine Inch Nails

[Music video on Youtube](https://youtu.be/PTFwQP86BRs) (NSFW)

You let me violate you  
You let me desecrate you  
You let me penetrate you  
You let me complicate you

Help me  
I broke apart my insides  
Help me  
I've got no soul to sell  
Help me  
The only thing that works for me  
Help me get away from myself

I want to fuck you like an animal  
I want to feel you from the inside  
I want to fuck you like an animal  
My whole existence is flawed  
You get me closer to god 

You can have my isolation  
You can have the hate that it brings  
You can have my absence of faith  
You can have my everything

Help me  
You tear down my reason  
Help me  
It's your sex I can smell  
Help me  
You make me perfect  
Help me become somebody else

I want to fuck you like an animal  
I want to feel you from the inside  
I want to fuck you like an animal  
My whole existence is flawed  
You can get me closer to god 

Through every forest  
Above the trees  
Within my stomach  
Scraped off my knees  
I drink the honey  
Inside your hive  
You are the reason  
I stay alive

blue = Frodo  
red = Éomer  
black = both


End file.
